The Storms Outside
by TheGryfter
Summary: The end of days has begun... As the world descends into chaos, Lisa Braeden sets out on a quest to find the one man who can save us all - Dean Winchester. The one who maybe, just maybe, she could love forever...
1. End of Days

A/N: Sorry, guys... something happened when I was uploading the new chapters - not sure what - and a couple of chapters got deleted. i had to reload the whole story. Anyway, it's all here now.

Thanks for reading, and please review...

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…**the storms outside…**

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…**end of days…**

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**.**

"_Weeping may remain for a night, but joy comes in the morning…"_

_Psalm 30:5_

_._

_._

_._

The world had, quite literally, gone to hell.

Reverting to animal instinct, people fled their homes in panic as a rush of earthquakes ripped up the continent. Freak storms lashed at the land like forces of unholy vengeance.

There was death in the streets, as fear morphed into sudden and terrible violence.

Brother slew brother.

Friend killed friend.

And the earth descended into chaos and darkness.

As Lisa Braeden watched the horror unfolding through the flickering images on her television, she found herself having the strangest thought.

_The world's ending, and Fox News is still going… If that isn't a sign of the apocalypse, I don't know what is. _

The picture wavered briefly, before the VTR cut to a composed and – God help us all, still smiling – anchorman in studio. He explained briefly that the images the viewer was about to see would offend those of a sensitive nature.

Lisa almost laughed – as if anything they'd shown for the past 48 hours wouldn't offend just about everyone.

She _almost_ laughed.

The feed cut to footage recorded on a hand-held camera, most likely a cellphone, sent in by a person who refused to be named.

It was sick beyond imagining.

A school bus had overturned in Jericho, Pennsylvania. Dozens of screaming, frightened children were trapped inside as flames started to lick at the upholstery once the engine caught fire. A squad of locals approached the bus and smashed in the windows. But then…

Then, instead of helping the trapped children to safety, the townspeople tore them apart.

The person recording the incident didn't try to help. In fact, Lisa caught the distinct sound of laughter coming from behind the lens.

There was so much blood.

Suppressing a shock of angry tears, Lisa switched off the TV. She shut her eyes, and offered up a quick prayer of thanks that Ben was safe – packed off to her parents who lived high in the mountains bordering Alaska. They didn't even have a television, so Ben would be spared the knowledge of what was happening in the world outside.

Yes, her son was safe, but he wouldn't be, she knew, if not for Dean Winchester.

When Dean had showed up at her door two years ago, it would be safe to say that Lisa was surprised. Sure, in those quiet moments in the middle of the night when Ben was asleep, when the only warmth she could draw on was a pillow which she huggedto herself, she had hoped he would come back.

Her memories of Dean Winchester were scattered, fragmented and confusing, to say the least.

Dean was supposed to be just another regret in a string of one-night stands. Lisa's taste in men left a lot to be desired, but she had her reasons, and they made sense to her.

A fear of commitment, of attachment, had led her to seek her pleasure in the company of men who were more than willing to spend the night, so long as they could sneak out in the morning.

That way there were no expectations, and no chance of being disappointed. It was simple, and it worked… for a time.

But Dean was different.

There was a depth to him that Lisa had sensed in the stillness of her bedroom while they held each other, during that first weekend ten years ago.

Lisa never told him this, but Dean had cried that first night.

After he'd slipped into his tormented dreams, he'd moaned and cried out – names and meaningless words, once in Latin – and the tears had escaped without him waking.

Not knowing what else to do, Lisa had wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close like a mother comforting a trembling child, and the nightmares stopped.

The next morning, Dean was Dean again.

Snarky, sarcastic, with that gleam of the devil bouncing in his bright, beautiful eyes.

And when he walked out the door, Lisa had convinced herself that she would never see him again.

She was wrong. Eight years later, Dean was back.

And this time, he saved Ben - the reason Lisa went on living.

She had meant every word when she told him he could stay. She remembered the spark of hope that had lit in his eyes as he considered it. But he'd quashed it, and she saw the mask – of duty and regret – slip into place as he said: _"I can't… I got a lot of work to do, and it's not my life…"_

When he showed up again two weeks ago, the Dean she knew had disappeared.

This Dean was harder, more jaded, with a sadness in him that leaked out like blood from a wound. His words, which should have awakened in her the promise of… something. A future, perhaps… Had instead flamed the fear that she would never know joy with him.

"_Look, I have no illusions, okay? I know the life that I live… I know how that's going to end for me. Whatever, I'm okay with that. But I wanted you to know, that when I do picture myself happy… it's with you…"_

Grief powered those words.

Lisa had been looking at a man who'd come to the end of a long road. A road that had taken him to the heart of darkness. A road he was staring back, picturing the stops along the way, and hoping, praying maybe, for just glimmer of happiness. Even happiness lost.

Dean Winchester had warned her that the end of days was coming.

Now the end of days was here, and Lisa had a decision to make.

She unfurled a piece of paper lying on the table in front of her. On the paper, scrawled in her own hand, was an address and a phone number. The number was discontinued, but the house would still be there. Lisa had to believe that she could find something there. A clue, a lead, anything that could help.

Dean had saved Ben's life, twice now.

And while she could convince herself that that was her reasoning for what she would do next, she also knew that she was fooling herself.

There was a deeper meaning. A truth, buried in a heart torn almost to breaking over the years. That night when she'd held him, Lisa had felt at peace in his arms. And he, in turn, had found peace in hers.

That's why he needed her now.

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	2. This Coming Darkness

…**chapter two – this coming darkness…**

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**.**

Travelling the one hundred plus miles to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, took almost twenty-four hours. Lisa didn't even bother with the highways, but still, all roads except for dirt tracks and scrub infested lanes were jammed with cars and people on foot – fleeing to, and from, God knows where.

Lisa kept a large can of pepper-spray and a loaded gun in her lap at all times. She knew how to use the weapon – a slim 22. calibre that wouldn't be very accurate from any kind of distance but was more than useful up close. It was the type of gun a single mother one her own should have. Small, light, and hours on the practise range had drained her fear of the loathsome things.

Even so, she was grateful that she hadn't had to fire it yet. On the two occasions she'd been accosted on the road, both times by drifter types looking for trouble, the very sight of it was enough to dispel any interest they might have in her.

Finding the place she wanted proved simpler than she'd hoped. A sign posted on the side of the underpass led her straight to it. A salvage yard on the outskirts of the town. The home of Bobby Singer.

Lisa only knew the name from a brief conversation with Dean when they first met. She'd asked him where he lived, and Dean had laughed, telling her his address was the open road. She'd called him an idiot who sounded like a character lifted from Kerouac. When she pressed him further, Dean had told her that if she ever needed to get hold of him, the best thing to do was leave a message with Bobby Singer, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

The gate, a huge corrugated iron monstrosity had been ripped off it's hinges. Her father had owned a salvage yard, once upon a time. As a child, Lisa had spent many happy hours clambering in and out of the husks of discarded cars – turning the metal heaps into ivory towers where she would wait for her own Prince Charming. He never came, of course, but it was fun nonetheless.

However, driving through the crowded lot in the dwindling dusk, Lisa felt like she was passing through a graveyard where the skeletons had been hauled from the ground and stacked, one on top of the other. There was an air of abandonment and… death… about the place.

She parked in front of the simple wooden house at the far end, and got out of her car. Holding the gun in one hand, and the pepper spray in the other, she mounted the steps to the front door. This too, had been wrenched from it's place.

The interior was choked with looming shadows. Passing through the living room, Lisa caught the pungent scent of sulphur in the air. The furniture had been overturned and, in most cases, ripped to shreds. Shelves and bookcases had been hauled to the ground, and the windows were smashed in.

A single wheelchair, it's back-rest sipped to shreds, lay on it's side in the corner of the room.

"Hello?" Lisa called out, without knowing why.

The place was almost certainly deserted. Still, this was her only link to finding Dean, and she'd lose nothing by having a look around.

Stepping through the living room into a cramped hallway, Lisa started to gag. There was a long smear of blood, dried over and cloaked with flies, on the wall. She hurried past and the flies took to the sky in a swarm around her head.

Turning at the first door she came to, Lisa found herself in the kitchen. Here, there was less evidence of the fight that had obviously taken place in the other room.

There were dishes, cleaned and stacked, next to the sink. On the table, a bottle of whiskey, half drunk, and a pile of scattered books. They looked old, with leather-bound covers and fading yellow pages.

Along one wall, next to a window, was a bank of phones. They had labels taped to them: _Police. FBI. Fed. Marhsal. _

Lisa wasn't even going to guess what the phones were for. Her interest was piqued by a note taped next to the phone marked _Health Dept._. It bore a series of names, with phone numbers scribbled next to them. Most of the names, such as Daniel, Rufus, Ellen, John, had neat lines drawn through them. One name, though, didn't – _Winchester._

Her heart suddenly pounding with excitement, Lisa whipped out her cellphone. Flipping it open, she swore.

_Cell Service Unavailable_.

"Dammit!"

Grabbing the nearest of the hard-line phones, Lisa punched in the number, hoping against hope that wherever Dean was, he would have cell reception. The phone rang for an interminably long time before she heard a click, and suddenly, Dean's voice.

"_Hey, it's me. Talk when it tells you to."_

Lisa heard a beep. She took a breath.

"Dean, it's me, Lisa," she said, "God, I hope you get this. I'm at Bobby Singer's house. I don't know what happened here. It looks like there was a fight, and… there's blood… Dean, please, wherever you are just… call me. Find me. Whatever. My number is 212-555-7717. Dean…" she broke off, biting her bottom lip, "I need to know that you're okay."

Her hands shook as she hung up the phone.

In making the decision to come here looking for Dean, Lisa had succeeded in pushing her own fears to the back of her mind.

Dean was caught in the middle of whatever was happening. She was sure of it. And judging by this house, it was violent, and deadly.

Lisa had to consider the possibility that Dean was dead. The last time she spoke to him, he'd sounded like someone who, while not making peace with it, had accepted that the end was near.

"No!"

Gritting her teeth and forcing herself not to think along those lines, Lisa crossed back to the table. She lifted a book off the top of the stack. The title was embossed on the cracked leather cover in gold leaf: _Secrets of the Tribulation. _

Opening it to a page marked by a slip of notepaper, Lisa started to read:

"_And he shall lay to waste the land of plenty. The seas shall bubble, and the sky be rent asunder. He will stalk the fields, a devourer of nations, and all who hear his name shall tremble…"_

What the hell? Sounded like a fairy tale to scare kids.

Lisa was about to move on to another book when she felt it.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and a slimy cold slithered up her spine. Caught in a sudden, irrational fear, Lisa just held her breath.

The presence grew stronger, sneaking over her, and it felt like she was slowly drowning in icy water.

She tightened her grip on the handle of the gun and spun around.

There was no one there.

Still holding the gun at eye level, Lisa swung left and right, squinting into the gloom, trying to find the source of the cold… the emptiness.

But there was nothing.

Lisa lowered the gun, and breathed out, berating herself for acting like a child jumping at shadows.

Shadows…

The shadow by the door moved.

At first, Lisa wasn't sure that she was seeing things properly, but then it moved again. Sliding up the wall was a… presence. A deep darkness that slowly took shape as it swelled above her.

It looked like some kind of animal –extending it's talons across the expanse of the ceiling.

Letting out a piercing scream, Lisa raised the gun again and fired three times.

Nothing happened for a second. Then the shadow detached itself from the wall.

It sprang forward, like a dark glob of paint peeling free from canvas. It arced into the centre of the room where it started swirling like a small cyclone, pressing in on itself. The shadow stretched, and expanded, like something inside was shoving against it until it took the same animalistic shape.

A brisk wind started whipping through the room, catching at her clothes and her hair and Lisa shrunk back until she hit the wall.

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the shadow-creature. It was making a noise now. A high, keening sound that sounded like an urgent whisper. With infinite slowness, it's shape resolved until it hulked in the middle of the floor, larger than the doorway, letting off a hiss of steam that smelled like rotting flesh.

It opened it's eyes. Two glowing coals in the blackness.

It stepped towards her.

Lisa fired again. And again. And again.

The bullets seemed to get sucked into the thing's flesh, affecting it no more than a light bee sting. Lisa scrabbled sideways, trying to make for the door. Before she got two feet, she felt a stab of pain in her left side. Her flesh tore and she was hurled through the air, where she smashed against the edge of the sink.

She hit the ground and rolled to her back, her breath punching out in ragged gasps. She looked down. Her shirt was soaked in blood.

Blinking through her tears, she raised her eyes again. The creature was advancing on her. Kicking at the floor with the heels of her boots, Lisa pushed herself back against the base of the sink. She lifted one hand, and managed to clamp hold of the edge and heave herself up.

She'd dropped the gun and the spray, and now looked for anything she could use as a weapon. There was a bottle of water beside the basin and she made a grab for it. It was heavy, an old bourbon flask and, spinning on her heel, Lisa hurled it at the creature.

The creature expanded again and it's form wavered, like a heat haze. It seemed to dissipate, like condensation on fast-forward and suddenly it was weightless again, nothing more than smoke and shadow. The bottle passed straight through it, where it smashed against the chain bulb hanging from the ceiling. Water rained down, catching in the light fixture and sending out a shower of sparks. The crest of water hit the shadow and it suddenly, unbelievably, caught on fire.

The thing started screeching like a banshee as a cloud of angry red flames engulfed it. Lisa shut her eyes against the brightness and fell back, flinging an arm across her as she tried to ward off the expanding wall of heat that rushed from the creature like an angry wave.

She collapsed to the floor, trying to ignore it's cries and curled up into a protective ball. After a time that might have been seconds or minutes, she had no way of telling, silence descended.

Lisa waited as her heart continued to jackhammer against her ribs. The pain in her side was intense, but she didn't move. Only when the room started to cool, and the smell started to fade, did she dare to uncurl her body and look around.

The thing – whatever it was – was gone.

Lisa stayed on the floor, shock flooding her system with adrenaline and making it hard to breathe… hard to think.

What was it?

And why did it catch on fire when the water hit?

Deciding these questions could be saved for later, Lisa struggled to her feet. She cried out again as another jolt of pain lanced through her side, but she stayed upright. She found her gun in the corner of the room and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans.

Then she got the hell out of there.

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	3. A Deathly Silence

…**a deathly silence…**

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**.**

Carl Kolchak was a simple guy.

Graduating at the absolute middle of his class, he never joined any clubs, did any activities, and made only a few acquaintances without acquiring any real friends. Unremarkable to look at, he was also fairly quiet and tended to fade into the background, even if he was the only one in the room.

Carl got on in life by shrugging his way from one part time job to another. Most of his bosses liked him well enough. He showed up on time and did what he was asked. But Carl's singular lack of ambition meant he was always passed on, just when he was getting comfortable.

In fact, Carl had only one passion in his life – horror stories.

Carl devoured every macabre tale he could lay his hands on, penned by every renowned horror scribe from Peter Straub to Stephen King, from Clark Ashton Smith to H.P Lovecraft. The more dire and bloody the story, the more Carl loved it.

Which made the last two weeks, in Carl's own words: _"Awesomely trippy!"_

Carl didn't know what to make of the news these days. He didn't understand why perfectly ordinary people would turn on each other with such a frenzy. He saw evidence of it all over town. Stores that had been looted, murdered tramps left discarded in alleyways.

It was every story he'd come to cherish brought bizarrely and terrifyingly to life.

But Carl could only stay terrified for so long. He'd grown up in a different world – a world where black and white was the order of the day, and the monster was always defeated by the end of the book.

So, with a remarkable display of ignorance, he found himself back at work on this stormy night, perched on his usual chair behind the check-in desk of the Arkham Motel.

He'd shut the windows against the storm that had erupted only ten minutes ago, and was busy trawling through a dog-eared copy of Richard Matheson's Hell House. The sound of the rain lashing against the sheet roofing of the motel offered the perfect backdrop to the famous story.

In fact, Carl was so engrossed that he actually became annoyed when, against all expectations, a woman trudged in looking for a room.

She was attractive, Carl had to admit that. Even though her hair was mussed and she covered her body with a long, tan trench coat. She appeared to be quite nervous and jittery, drumming the manicured nails of one hand against the desk, while keeping the other hand curled around her torso. She moved funny too, in jerky spurts, seeming to favour her right side, as though she'd been hurt.

Carl took down her information – Lisa Winchester, a resident of Kansas – without bothering to ask for an ID and handed her a key. She disappeared back out into the rain, and Carl got back to his book.

He'd just reached the part where Lionel was busy tying Edith to the bed when he was interrupted again. This time, it was a man – middle-aged, fairly tall, with a receding hairline and a sleazy smile. Carl didn't bother to be polite this time.

"You gotta be crazy to be out on a night like this, dude," he said, plonking the book down and reaching for the register.

The man shook out his coat, as if that would help, and stepped up to the counter.

"The highways are closed," said the man, "I have to sleep somewhere."

"Yeah, well, it's twenty bucks for the night. Unless you want cable. That'll cost you extra."

"Just the room will be fine."

Carl opened the register and, picking up a pen, said, "Name?"

"Silence. John Silence."

Carl started. He recognised that name, but couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it. Shrugging off his sudden unease, he filled out the register for room 13, and slid the key across the counter. The man reached out a thin, almost skeletal hand and snatched it up.

"Thank you," said Silence.

"Yeah, sure," said Carl, flopping back into his seat.

The man didn't move. He stayed rooted to the spot, his dark eyes fixed on Carl in an unblinking stare. The man was starting to creep him out.

"Anything else?" he asked.

The man just smiled. Carl frowned, repeating the stranger's name again in his mind, trying to figure out just where…

Then he had it.

"Hey," he said, "Your name… that's the guy from the Blackwood stories. John Silence. He's a psychic who hunts the supernatural."

"Right," said Silence, "Isn't that ironic?"

Carl didn't know what to make of that last statement, and so, chose to remain quiet.

"One more thing," said his guest, "I need to make a call."

"There's a phone near the vending machines," said Carl, "Out the door and turn left. Don't worry, it's out of the rain."

"Not that kind of call," said Silence.

Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a tarnished silver chalice. That was exactly the word that sprang to mind when Carl saw it – a chalice. It was large, with a series of raised, almost demonic, faces embossed around the circumfrence. Silence laid it on the counter, all the while smiling that same, unfazed, creepy smile.

Then, in a burst of action he lurched over the counter, grabbing Carl by the hair. Using his full body weight, Silence leant backwards and dragged the young man over the counter, until his thighs hit the unforgiving wood. A knife appeared in his hand and in one swift, clean motion, he'd slit Carl Kolchak's throat.

Carl never even got the chance to scream.

Arterial blood gushed from the wound, spraying onto the floor and counter, with a generous amount bubbling into the bowl of the chalice. Once it was full, Silence released his victim with a contemptuous flip of his wrist. The body hit the chair, upending it, and came to rest on the floor. Silence glanced at the cover of the book, still lying face down next to the register and chuckled to himself.

Lifting the chalice, he began to mumble.

"_Dus manibus, proas preazens… Obtinae nihi… Dom num satanum esto…"_

A gust of wind suddenly whipped through the room, even with the doors and windows closed, the air filling with the sound of static. Silence kept his eyes on the surface of the blood as it started to bubble. After a few seconds, he swallowed hard, and spoke, addressing the chalice.

"I found the girl, my lord," he said, "She's at a motel outside Sioux Falls."

Silence frowned, and to an outside observer might have looked like he was listening to something. Eventually, he spoke again.

"Yes, she found the cripple's house. Somehow, she got away from the Whisperer we left there."

A pause.

"No, my lord. No sign yet."

Another.

"Yes, my lord, as you command, but…"

A longer pause this time. Silence flinched.

"It's just… I've been watching her for weeks. Can't I…?"

He broke off, listening intently, then:

"Your will be done, master."

The wind died down, and Silence let out a heavy breath. Grabbing his key and the chalice – several drops of blood spilling onto his hand – he left the luckless clerk where he'd fallen, and stepped out into the storm.

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	4. Songs of Nightmares

…**songs of nightmares…**

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Lisa cried out in pain.

She clamped her mouth tight, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, before she applied the damp cloth to the gaping wound in her side. Wincing with each touch, she cleaned it and applied a disinfectant cream. Then she taped a fresh bandage over the jagged abrasion and pulled on a t-shirt.

She was lucky. She'd had the foresight to bring along her first aid kit – a Christmas gift from her father. He'd been attacked by an old wolf, shunted from it's pack, while out strolling the woods one day and since then, he'd been obsessed with safety. The kit came in handy now.

Lisa rummaged through it and found a box of pain killers. She didn't recognise the brand, and had no idea what the proper dosage should be. She took four anyway, washing them down with water straight from the faucet.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had dried, but was still damp, and her face looked worn. There were dark circles under her eyes, highlighting just how bone-weary she was.

No surprise there. She hadn't slept properly for almost forty-eight hours – if you didn't count the one hour doze in her car the night before. Even so, it felt like she'd been on the move for much longer.

Tearing herself away from the mirror, Lisa crossed back into the cramped bedroom. It was sparsely decorated with faded furniture and moth-eaten drapes. The wallpaper was peeling along the skirting boards and the TV was bolted into a metal stand drilled into the wall.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lisa finally allowed herself to reflect on what had happened at Bobby Singer's place.

She'd been attacked by… something. A creature.

After Dean killed the changeling that had taken the place of her son, he'd explained that there were all manner of evil supernatural creatures prowling the earth. It was his job to hunt them down and kill them. Obviously, she'd encountered one of them tonight.

Lisa couldn't be sure, but maybe that thing was responsible for the blood on Bobby's wall, and the state of the front room. Something had ripped through the place bent on destruction. If Lisa hadn't found the bottle of magic water, she'd certainly be dead now.

Was it worth it? This mad quest to find Dean?

Yes, she decided. It was.

Lisa lay back on the bed, rubbing at her tired eyes.

All she could do now was hope that Dean got the message she'd left for him.

Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, a surge of fear welling up from the pit of her stomach.

Dean!

If he got the message, he'd come looking for her at Bobby's. Lisa had no idea if she'd actually killed the creature. It might still be there, concealed in the shadows, waiting for another victim.

She couldn't let Dean just walk blindly into it's lair. She had to warn him.

Lisa checked her cellphone again but, as expected, there was still no service. Shrugging on her coat, she left the room and headed back in the direction of the front office. She'd passed a bank of payphones on the way to her room.

Her footsteps could be heard even over the pounding of the rain, and Lisa hugged the coat tighter, bending her head into the rushing wind. A flash of lightning lit the night.

Lisa stopped.

The thunder rolled in, seeming to shake the earth with it's power. She turned around, almost certain she'd heard something in that moment of stillness between the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder.

There was no one behind her.

Wary now, she carried on.

She arrived at the rack of phones and lifted the first handset. There was a dial tone. Slotting in a few coins, she dialled the number she'd found at Bobby's house. This time, it didn't ring. Instead, it cut straight to a recording informing her that the subscriber she'd dialled was unavailable.

The fear inside her solidified, falling like a weight in her stomach as she hung up the phone. There was no way to warn Dean now.

Lisa tried to convince herself that he'd be okay. Fighting monsters is what Dean did. He wouldn't have survived this long if he wasn't good at it. There was a tiny voice at the back of her mind, though, that whispered that he only had to get it wrong once.

Trying to suppress the nagging voice, she turned back the way she'd come, just as lightning struck again. In the sudden blaze, Lisa thought she caught a hint of movement at the end of the hallway, followed by a sound – wood on wood, like a door clicking shut.

When the darkness took over again it was gone.

Either she was being paranoid – spooked by her encounter with the creature – or something was stalking her through the motel. Neither option gave her much comfort, and she all but raced back to her room. She slammed the door closed, and bolted it from the inside.

She took off her coat, and slipped out of her shoes. She turned out the light in the main room, but left the bulb burning in the bathroom. Exhausted, Lisa slipped under the covers. The bed was hard, and the sheets felt like they had more in common with cardboard than cloth, but still… she was beyond tired. She shut her eyes, and soon, found herself drifting… tugged ever downwards into the land of slumber…

_She was in a forest. A clearing, to be exact. Trees surrounded her, standing like sentinels on guard against the tempest world. The shadows between the trees lurched this way and that, broiling into a mass of slithering darkness that seemed to beckon to her. _

_She was sitting on a blanket, her dress spread out over her bare legs. In her hand was glass of wine. She stared at it, curious, swirling the liquid around. It didn't move like wine. It was more solid, too dark, and left a stain when a tiny drop flopped over the edge of the glass. _

_She lifted it to her lips, her tongue darting out and scooping up the spilt drop. _

_Blood. _

_She frowned. It left a warm, metallic taste in her mouth. _

_She looked up when she heard a twig snap, and saw a tall figure striding across to her. Still cloaked in shadow, all she could make out were the heavy boots, jean clad legs, and the cut of a bomber jacket. _

_The figure emerged into the sliver of moonlight that pierced the trees. _

"_Dean," she said, her voice cold and distant. _

"_You shouldn't have come," said Dean, stopping a few feet from her._

_He crossed his arms, glaring down at her with open hostility. _

"_I had to," she said, "You'll die without me."_

"_Wrong," said Dean, "You've already killed me."_

_Lisa studied his face, hurt by the tone of accusation in his voice. As she watched, his flesh seemed to sag. His hair started falling out like a scatter of leaves brushed from a late autumn tree. Then, like the tip of a candle held to a flame, his skin started to melt away. One eyeball popped from it's socket, hanging by a bloodied cord on the side of his face. _

"_You killed me," he said, again. _

_Lisa screamed. _

Her own scream woke her.

Flashes of the nightmare still swirled inside her mind as she was flung back into consciousness. She was immediately aware of the pain in her side as she sat up in bed. She was panting, and sweating, trying in vain to control the terror that seized her heart.

Shutting her eyes against sudden tears, she tried to calm herself.

_Breathe… just breathe… only a dream…_

It took her a moment to realise she wasn't alone.

There was someone standing at the edge of the bed. The light from the bathroom cast half his body in light, the other in shadow, like some obscene negative of a photograph. He was tall, and the side of his face that was visible was scrunched up into a smirk that chilled her.

He started singing, a lilting tune like a lullaby and for a second, Lisa was convinced she was still dreaming.

"_One-two, the devil's coming for you… three-four, better lock your door…"_

Then he laughed, and leaned forward. Lisa couldn't move. She could smell him. The same stink of sulphur she'd found in Bobby's house.

She knew.

This was no dream.

"Hello, Lisa," said John Silence, in an almost courteous manner, "I've been watching you for a long, long time…"

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	5. Two Knives in the Night

…**two knives in the night…**

**.**

**.**

There's an old cliché, used throughout the halcyon of fiction to describe moments like this – it's called _frozen with terror._

Lisa had never understood how it could be possible, to be so afraid that your very muscles seize and your body refuses to obey the wailing in your mind to 'Get away! Get away!' until now…

The presence of the man overwhelmed her. The stillness of his body that spoke of nothing more than coiled rage just barely contained. The dark pools of his eyes that seemed to suck the breath from her. And his smell…

That raw stink of sulphur, that seemed to enter through every sense, every orifice and grip the cells of the body, squeezing out the lifeblood from inside…

If evil had a smell – this was it.

The man took a step towards her and eased himself onto the edge of the bed. His leg brushed against her foot, where it jutted out from under the sheets and it was like a surge of electricity jolted through her. Lisa scrabbled back, clawing against the headboard, trying to get some distance from him. He smiled.

"I love that scent…" he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, making a soft, whistling sound, "Especially on a woman. When you're terrified, it smells like… blood and sex all mixed in a heady aroma… Intoxicating."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" he grinned, running the tip of his tongue against his front teeth, "See, that's… complicated. I haven't been allowed to take what I want. My master thinks you're a key… and he told me to just… watch you. But how can I do that? When everything you do is designed to entice me? To call me to you?"

Planting his hands on either side of her legs he bent at the waist, perching forward until she could feel the acrid rasp of his breath against her cheek.

"You're such a teasing little slut…" he crooned, "That outfit you wear when you go jogging… So tight. Wrapped around your firm…" he chuckled, "Well… I know what you want. I know you. And you're just gagging for it!"

"No…" she moaned, "Leave me alone."

"I can't," he said, "We're just getting started."

With slow deliberation he reached into his pocket, and drew out a knife. The dim light caught on the surface of the blade and it gleamed. The sight of it seemed to spark something in Lisa.

"No!"

She jerked her left hand under the pillow, curling her fingers around the handle of the gun. She pulled it out, levelled it on his chest, right above the heart and shot him at point blank range.

At such close quarters, the bullet slammed into his chest cavity with such impact that it catapulted him off the bed. He hit the floor with a thud, and lay still.

The dam broke.

The release of all that terror and tension seized the tears inside her, drawing them to the surface. She dropped the gun, put her head in her hands and sobbed. She was shaking uncontrollably. Painful, brutal sobs that shook her insides.

"That stung."

Lisa stopped breathing. A startled cry was wrenched back into her throat as she raised her head and saw him standing, once more, at the foot of the bed.

A thin plume of smoke drifted out of the hole the bullet had made in his chest. His face was curled into a grimace of pain and anger, and his eyes… His eyes were jet black.

"What… are you?" she croaked, when she found her breath.

"Honey, by the end of the night… you won't be asking that question."

He came forward again. Lisa screamed. Diving to her left, she tucked her body in and rolled off the bed. She hit the ground on her injured side and the pain stunned her for long moments. Jumping to her feet she made for the door, but he was too quick. He rushed her from behind, slamming into her back and smashing her off balance.

Lisa's head cracked against the wood and she almost blacked out. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, his other arm pressing into the soft flesh of her throat and pinning her to the door. He squeezed, cutting off her airway.

Lisa tried to fight, clawing, scratching and kicking at him, but he ignored her efforts as though she were nothing but a petulant child.

"I had a feeling you'd be fun," he said.

His face was bare inches from her own, and Lisa caught herself staring into those eyes, the colour of midnight. Dark pools, she was scared that if she stared into them too long, she would drown.

He eased the pressure on her throat for a moment, before driving her back again, crushing his lips against hers. Lisa tried to whip her head away, but he had her. He tasted like rust and blood.

Wrenching her head back, she banged it against the door again, but she broke free. Then, in a fit of pique, she lashed out, catching his bottom lip in her teeth and biting down.

This time, he screamed.

He fell back, a spurt of blood shooting up between them. He wiped at his mouth with his hand and it came away crimson.

"Little bitch!"

He whipped his arm around, catching her square on the cheek with the flat of his hand. The smack sounded like a gunshot and her legs gave way. Flat on the floor, she looked up at him, seeing the murderous rage building inside him, like a kettle coming to the boil.

"You're going to pay for that."

That's when the window exploded.

A shower of glass shards crashed inwards, followed by a dark shape that barrelled through the gap and into the room. The figure hit the ground, and seemed to almost bounce up into a standing position. Lisa caught the tell-tale glint of another knife, and then the figure was moving. Nothing but a blur, the knife arced round, the blade burying itself in the cleft beneath the intruder's chin, and driving up into the brain.

The man gagged, and it seemed like a flash of sparks erupted under his skin. The knife was wrenched clear, and he collapsed to the ground.

He didn't move again.

Lisa's mouth was open, caught in the image of a scream that would not come. She stared at the body, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Her hands, still trembling, were clenched into fists – so tight that her nails dug into the flesh of her palms, drawing blood.

She looked up.

"Are you okay?"

This time, Lisa didn't even try to fight the sobs that overtook her.

The fright, the anger… all of it disappeared at the sight of him, and all she could do was choke out his name…

"Dean…"

.

.

.


	6. An Elusive Peace

…**an elusive peace…**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Lisa…"

Dean crouched down in front of her, cupping her face in his hands. Lisa relished the touch, the rough texture of his fingers on her cheek. He peered into her eyes, studying her, checking her…

"Are you okay?"

"I will be," she said, "What was that thing? I shot him. Right through the heart and he… he just got up."

"Demon," said Dean, "Guns won't work on them."

"But knives will?"

"This knife."

Dean picked the knife up from the floor where he'd dropped it. Lisa saw that the handle was made of yellowed ivory, and the blade curved at the tip like a scimitar. Dean put it back in it's sheath and held out his hand. Lisa took it, wincing as he helped her up.

"You're hurt," he said.

"Just a scratch," Lisa tried to smile it off, a but another jolt of pain wiped it from her face and she grimaced.

"Sit down," he said, leading her gently to the bed.

"Dean, I'll be fine."

"I'll be the judge of that. Just sit down."

Too drained to argue more, Lisa obeyed.

"Where are you hurt?"

"My side," she said.

"Take off your shirt."

Lisa smirked, and caught his eye, expecting to see her own hint of humour mirrored on his face. But it wasn't. Dean was serious. His jaw was clenched and he regarded her with a distant, detached gaze.

A bit unnerved, Lisa struggled out of her shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra, and made a vain attempt to cover herself with one arm. Not that Dean even snuck a peek.

The bandage had peeled away in the struggle and Dean ripped it off. He crossed into the bathroom, and emerged a few seconds later with the first aid kit and a damp cloth. With quick, practised strokes he wiped off the blood that had started to ooze from the cut and covered it with a fresh bandage.

"This little bitch didn't do this," said Dean, nodding at the dead demon, "Who did?"

"There was a… creature, or something," said Lisa, "At Bobby Singer's house."

With the bandage in place, Lisa put her shirt back on. Dean backed away from her, leaning against the doorframe leading to the bathroom.

"I was there," said Dean, "After I got your message, I went straight over. There was nothing in the house."

"It caught on fire."

Now that she was saying it out loud, the story sounded even more ridiculous, and she actually laughed.

"I threw a bottle of water at it, and it just… caught on fire."

"Probably holy water," said Dean, "What did it look like?"

"I don't want to talk about it now," said Lisa, "Please…"

"Okay."

"How did you even find me?"

Dean shrugged, "Like I said, I got your message. I went over to Bobby's, but there was no one there. So, I started checking motels."

"That quickly?" Lisa was surprised, "Even if you were here, how did you know what room I was in? How would you even know to check the rooms?"

"The dead guy behind the reception desk was a clue," said Dean.

"The clerk's dead?"

"Throat slit," Dean confirmed, "Anyway, I decided to scout the rooms and I heard the gun shot."

"Thank God…"

Lisa shut her eyes again and lay back on the bed. She was so tired.

"We have to get out of here," said Dean.

He was in motion again. He flipped the demon onto it's back, quickly rummaging through it's pockets. He came out with a wallet, which he quickly emptied, and nothing else.

"Get your stuff," said Dean.

Ignoring the stiffness in her side, Lisa hurriedly got her suitcase together. She grabbed the kit, and found her gun. Dean took her bags, and led her outside. His car was parked round the front, and they had to jog through the rain to get to it. Only when they were inside, and Dean had torn out of the lot, did Lisa speak again.

"Why was that… demon… even there?" she asked, "Are they just… everywhere these days?"

"Pretty much," said Dean, keeping his eyes on the road, "But I think that one was following you."

"Why?"

"Me."

Lisa turned in her seat, studying his profile in the flashing light of the streetlamps as they passed underneath them. His expression was stern and set, everything about him screaming of tension.

"You? What are you talking about?"

"He's going after everyone who knows me."

"Who is?"

Dean didn't respond. Instead, he reached across her and flipped open the glove compartment. He flicked through a stack of old tapes without once taking his eyes from the road. Selecting one, Dean inserted it into the tape player and clicked it on. A loud strain of an angry guitar seared out of the speakers, indicating that the conversation was at an end.

.

_Hate me today…_

_Hate me tomorrow…_

_Hate me for all the things_

_I didn't do for you…_

_Hate me in ways…_

_Yeah, ways hard to swallow…_

_Hate me so you can finally_

_See what's good for you…_

.

A queer feeling settled over Lisa as she watched him.

Yes, he had saved her. Yes, he had shown concern in the aftermath, but… something was off with him. Gone was the warmth that usually radiated out of him. Dean Winchester was a lot of things, but he was never this… cold.

Clasping her arms, she hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down, trying to banish the gooseflesh that had suddenly broken out all over.

.

.

.

Lisa sat on the bed, and studied the new motel room. In many ways, it was exactly like the one she'd just left, minus the dead demon and the smashed window, of course. There were also two beds.

The strain of the past few days had turned her muscles to corded iron, and it felt like there was a clamp lodged to her spine. Grunting, she shifted her body, rotating at the waist in an effort to dispel the stiffness that had burrowed into every part of her.

Dean entered the room, shaking drops of rainwater from his hair. He was carrying a duffel bag which he'd salvaged from the trunk of the car. He dropped it on the chair beside the door and zipped it open. Reaching in, he pulled out three tied corded bags, and placed them on the window sills.

"What are those?" asked Lisa.

"Hex bags," said Dean, "They'll throw the demons off our trail."

"Oh…" she said, "Good…"

Dean reached into the bag again and took out a gun. It wasn't a regular gun. It looked old, like the ones Lisa had seen in old Westerns. Crossing to the bed, Dean placed it under his pillow. A second later, he laid the demon-killing knife beside it.

"You should get some sleep," he said, sitting down and taking off his boots.

"That's it?" said Lisa, a little offended, "That's all you've got to say? Don't you even want to know why I'm here?"

"Doesn't matter," said Dean, "I'm taking you back tomorrow."

"No you're not."

Dean swung round on the bed to face her. For the first time, she saw genuine anger in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," said Dean, "You shouldn't be any part of this."

"And what, exactly, is _this,_ Dean? What's going on? It looks like the world is coming apart at the seams!"

"That's exactly what's happening!" said Dean, "And that's why you can't be anywhere near me. If you don't want to go home, that's fine. But I'll find a place where you'll be safe, and then I'm leaving you there."

"Screw you!"

Lisa was surprised how quickly she got angry herself. She'd left her home, ventured out into the madness, all in the hope of finding him! And here he was, ready to pack her off without even bothering to explain what was going on.

"You don't own me, Dean," she said, "You don't get to tell me what to do with my life!"

"Are you crazy?" Dean shot back, "Are you trying to get yourself killed? I came to see you because I wanted you as far away from all this as possible!"

"Exactly," said Lisa, "You came to see me! You knocked on my door!"

"So now you're blaming me?"

"No, but…" Lisa broke off, trying to control the bitterness that was seeping up inside, "God dammit, Dean… what did you expect me to do? You tell me something's coming, that it's going to be dangerous, and you expect me to just hide while you fight it alone?"

"I didn't ask you to come after me."

"You didn't have to!" she spat, "You don't have to ask the people who love you!"

Silence fell.

It felt like a chasm opened up between them, wider than the distance between the two beds. Dark, and endless, it stretched out, and Lisa felt like she couldn't even see him anymore.

Dean looked away. Before he did, she saw the mask slip and caught a hint of sadness on his face. But it vanished as quickly as it arrived.

Turning onto his side, he clicked off the bedside lamp.

"Go to sleep," he said.

Lisa refused to cry.

He'd dismissed her, and in that action he'd hurt her more than the monsters and demons ever could.

Instead, she pulled back the blankets, and tried to find the release of sleep.

.

.

.

The words reached her, in that land between sleep and awake.

"_Sam… I can't… I can't, Sammy…"_

Still fuzzy from drowsiness, Lisa groaned and rolled over. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. It was dark. The storm was still pounding outside and the wind lashed at the building like an animal.

"_Please, no! Come back… Sammy, please… God… where are you…? Help me…"_

Lisa sat up.

It was Dean. He was still in bed, shaking slightly from side to side, like a man bound in chains struggling to get free. He was moaning, crying out… stuck in a nightmare.

Slipping out of bed, Lisa crossed over to him.

"_I'm sorry… Sammy, I'm so sorry… I can't…"_

"Dean…"

Laying a gentle hand on his arm, she tried to wake him. It didn't work. Dean thrashed round suddenly, his eyes snapped shut, a look of pure anguish scarring his handsome features.

"_I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"_

Without thinking, Lisa drew back the sheets that covered him. Moving slowly, she climbed into the bed next to him. She took his hands, drawing them around her neck. Her own arms curled around his body, and pulled him close. Still sleeping, Dean clung to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she felt the stain of his tears course down her skin.

"It's okay," she murmured, brushing the tips of her fingers against the back of his neck, "It's okay… I'm here…"

After a few moments, Dean seemed to still. He still held her close, seemingly unable to let go. Lisa settled herself down, pressing her body as tight to his as she could. She willed him to draw on her warmth, on her strength.

To draw one her life if he must, if only it would bring him peace.

There, with Dean nestled in her arms and the storm raging outside, she fell asleep.

.

.

.


	7. Voices Long Gone

A/N: Excerpts taken from _John Winchester's Journal, _by Alex Irvine. All rights and respects go the author. All mistakes and misinterpretations are solely mine.

* * *

…**voices long gone…**

.

.

.

_November 2__nd__ 1986_

_Mary has been dead for three years. She doesn't know that Sammy has learned the alphabet, and likes to catch bugs. She doesn't know that Dean watches his little brother like a hawk every minute, with an expression on his face that says he's willing to die to keep Sammy safe. She doesn't know how it tears me up inside to see that expression, and to know that it's there because I have drilled it into Dean that Sammy is his responsibility. He's eight years old, and I've told him his brother's life is in his hands. Mary, I didn't have any right to do that. But what else could I do? _

.

Lisa pressed her hand flat against the brittle page, reading the words over again. She tried to understand, to make sense of the grief and emotion that coursed through the book she held in her hands.

It was a journal.

Lisa had woken early. The storm had died and she guessed it was the sudden silence that drew her back to consciousness. Dean was on his back, snoring softly, and she didn't want to wake him.

Instead, she slipped out of bed and padded across to the bathroom. She splashed her face with icy water, trying to wake up. Back in the room, she noticed that Dean's duffel bag was open. She didn't know what compelled her to peek inside. Curiosity, perhaps.

That's when she found the journal.

At first, she assumed it was Dean's, but it wasn't. It belonged to his father. The first entry was dated November 16th 1983, exactly two weeks after Mary Winchester was killed.

Lisa settled on the chair by the window, trying to read by the early dawn light so she wouldn't have to switch on the bedside lamps.

The journal told the tale of a family flung into horror, and one man's obsession with finding the thing that killed his wife. It was filled with stories, clippings and records of the supernatural beings that prowled the earth. Everything from exorcisms, to summonings, to the nature of spirits – like this:

_._

'_In the world of spirits is always a very great number of them, as being the first sort of all, in order to their examination and preparation; but there is no fixed time for their stay; for some are translated to heaven and others confined to hell soon after their arrival; whilst some continue there for weeks, and others for several years…' Ebenezer Sibly_

.

As Lisa delved deeper into the book, she found herself growing ever more fearful. Demons, tulpas, changelings, werewolves, vampires, poltergeists… all manner of beings intent on harming the living. And Dean and his brother had been raised to hunt these creatures.

It was a kind of madness she had never known, but, deeper than that, it was the story of a family. A family that had passed through the fire – quite literally – and come out swinging on the other side.

At the centre of it all, was John Winchester's quest to find the demon that killed his wife. Towards the end of the journal were snippets, quick notations detailing the leads he picked up as he finally found the demon's trail. The final entry read:

.

_October 28__th__ 2005_

_Got a phone call from the roadhouse, and the last piece fell into place. I'm on the trail. Twenty-two years, and I've finally found the sonofabitch. Now I'm going to take him down. _

.

"I killed it."

Lisa stiffened. She closed the book, and set it gently down on the floor, before she turned around.

Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn't look angry this time. Instead, he just watched her, almost resigned.

"You found the demon?"

He nodded, "We thought it would be over after that. We thought that if we managed to end the sonofabitch, we could leave that life behind. Try and pick up the pieces. But it didn't work out that way."

"Why not?"

"Because the demon – Azazel – was just a part of a bigger plan. Just one player in a game that…" here he broke off and gestured out the window, "That's only playing out now."

"What happened?"

Dean shook his head and rubbed at his tired eyes. Lisa stood. Crossing to the bed, she sat down beside him.

"Tell me," she said.

Dean turned to face at her. For long, long moments he just stared into her eyes, like he was looking for something. A reason, maybe…

"Were you lying next to me last night?" he asked, "Or was that just a dream?"

"It wasn't a dream," she said.

For the first time since they'd met up again last night, Dean actually smiled. It was as swift as quicksilver, but Lisa caught it nonetheless.

"Okay," he said, "I'll tell you…"

.

.

.


	8. Hunter or Hunted

…**hunter or hunted…**

.

.

.

Terrence Gage was a Hunter.

He'd survived for ten years in a business where the simplest mistake could be fatal, and every sunrise could be your last. He'd done so by being careful, methodical, even in his research methods. He never took a shot unless he was sure of victory. But also, he never hesitated once the bullets started flying.

It was the only way to survive.

At the moment, Gage was up a tree.

He'd been lodged in the crook of a tall fir for the past three hours. Every few minutes, he'd unsling the compact, but powerful set of binoculars he wore around his neck, and scan the area. He'd positioned himself in such a way that he got an unrestricted 360 degree view.

He'd spent the last seven days in the same spot in order to confirm that his target was exactly who Gage suspected he was. Gage had a fantastic memory, and had no need to take notes. He just observed, and learned his target's habits and movements. That way, when he made his move, he would be prepared.

By Gage's calculations, his target should be on his way home. Gage could never fully understand the targets he took out – not their methods or their thinking. They were akin to aliens, so far removed from him that killing them affected him not at all. Like, why anybody or anything would want to live in a ramshackle house on a dead end lane outside Des Moines was just beyond him.

The place was so far removed from anyone, or anything, that it might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. Gage had no love of crowds, or people in general, but he wouldn't shut himself away completely the way his target had. Still, it was helpful. Nobody would hear the gunshots if it came to that.

A couple of minutes later, Gage heard the distinct sputter of an old diesel engine. He craned to the right, and saw a plume of exhaust smoke in the distance, just over a rise in the land about half a mile distant.

This was it.

Moving swiftly, Gage swung his legs over the side of the branch and dropped to the ground. He scooped up his plain brown satchel from where he'd stored it at the base of the tree and stepped out into the lane. He waited by the side of the road as the truck approached.

The driver slowed when he spotted him, as Gage had anticipated. His target was careful, and used to being hunted, and would naturally react with suspicion. It made little difference. Gage was ready.

He waited for the driver to park the truck, keeping a slight, calm smile on his face. Once the driver had emerged from the cab, Gage stepped forward, hand extended.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Noah Frost."

The other man made no move to shake Gage's hand. Instead, he eyed him warily. Gage kept the smile in place. The man was older than Gage, certainly. Maybe in his late-fifties. His long hair was grey, and matted, and his beard was unkempt. He was thin, but Gage could tell that his slight frame was deceptive. The way he carried himself suggested that he was much stronger than he looked.

"Are you Harlan Moses?" asked Gage, keeping his tone deliberately light.

"I'm sorry, you got the wrong guy."

"No, no," Gage shook his head, "I don't think I do. Roy described you perfectly."

Gage had to suppress a smile as he saw the casual drop of the name hit home.

"You know Roy?"

"Yeah, worked a job with him out in Missouri not too long ago," Gage affected a pensive demeanour, "I tell ya, he's been real broken up since Wall got taken out. We lost too many in this fight already."

"So, you're a Hunter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you should know better than to come looking for me."

"Oh, yes sir, I appreciate that you're out of the business, but…" here, Gage inserted a dramatic pause, "See… I got news about Bobby Singer. And Roy, he told me it'd be best if I came to see you personally. Said you wouldn't take a phone call from a stranger."

Gage watched the wheels turning behind Harlan's eyes. The man was doing a series of very quick calculations, weighing his distrust of someone he didn't know just showing up at his door, against his concern for a man who'd saved his ass more than once.

"You got news on Bobby?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"You'd best come inside then."

Gage followed Harlan up the overgrown path to the front door. Harlan unlocked it and just walked straight in. Gage followed, stopping on the threshold. Harlan turned around.

"Got a problem?" he asked.

"I'm not a demon," said Gage, lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

There, daubed on the boards in red paint was a Devil's Trap. Wide enough so that no demon coming through the front door would get more than two feet into the house. Gage stepped forward, crossing the barrier. Harlan didn't move.

"And I imagine that's a bottle of holy water you just slipped out of your pocket," said Gage. He spread his arms, "Go ahead."

A jet of water hit him in the face. Gage reached up a hand and wiped it clear.

"Anything else?"

"Hold out your hand."

Gage knew what was coming. He'd expected it from a Hunter of Harlan's experience. Dutifully, he held out his hand, palm up.

Harlan reached into his pocket and produced a silver dagger. With a quick, flick of his wrist, he slit a three inch gash across Gage's palm. Gage watched as a drop of blood leaked out, falling to the floor. He stuck his hand in his mouth, sucking on the wound to stem the bleeding.

"Okay," said Harlan, "You're human. Come on in."

He led the way through the cramped house. The place was filled to bursting with books and rickety furniture. Gage could barely conceal his distaste. He kept an apartment in the New Orleans French Quarter that would probably fetch twenty times the asking price for this place. Even after Katrina.

Harlan crossed to the cabinet in the living room and took out a bottle of Irish whiskey. He didn't bother offering his guest a drink.

"So, what do you know about Bobby Singer?" he asked.

"Well, you heard the stories, I assume," said Gage, "That he went missing a coupla weeks ago?"

"Yeah, I heard," said Harlan, "Took me by surprise. I didn't think anything would be good enough to take down Bobby Singer."

Harlan stepped past Gage, heading for the couch. Gage waited until the Hunter's back was to him before he took out the knife.

"Well, funny you should say that…"

Gripping the knife point down, like he was going for an overhead chop, Gage swiped sideways instead, aiming for the back of Harlan's thighs. He sharpened and oiled the blade every single day, and wasn't surprised when it tore through the fabric of Harlan's jeans, biting into the sinews at the back of his legs as easily as an ice pick driving into a stick of butter.

A sheaf of blood spurted out as Gage wrenched the knife clear. Harlan screamed. Before he could fall, Gage struck again, repeating the process on the right leg. The tumbler of whiskey shattered on the floor, before Harlan hit the ground face first. He screamed again, a high-pitched wail of agony.

Gage had been expecting the noise. The term hamstrung originated in athletics, describing the specific injury where an athlete pulled his hamstring muscles. Anybody who'd endured a similar experience would testify to how painful it was. Having your hamstrings sliced clean through with a ten inch blade was infinitely worse. Hence, the screaming.

Stepping forward, Gage stuck the tip of his boot underneath the older man's body and flipped him roughly onto his back.

"You know, I've wanted to meet you for the longest time," said Gage, seeming not to hear the cries of the prone figure at his feet, "I mean… you're a legend. You were the one who taught John Winchester what it meant to be a Hunter. You once ripped through a nest of vampires in a single night. I'm telling you… it's an honour."

Still whimpering, Harlan dragged himself across the floor and came to rest with his back against a chair. He left two trails of blood, like some macabre highway, across the wood.

"What… what do you want?"

"From you? Nothing."

Gage wiped the blade on his jeans, and returned it to his pocket.

"Then… why are you doing this?"

"Because, I work on commission," said Gage, "The bigger the Hunter's rep, the more I get. You're going to fetch me a pretty penny," Gage chuckled, "Not as much as Bobby Singer, but then… only the Winchesters woulda been worth more than him."

"You… you killed Bobby?"

Finding a surge of strength from somewhere, Harlan tried to haul himself up. Gage made no move to stop him. The thing about not having any functional muscles at the back of your legs means that it's just about impossible for the human body to sustain it's own weight. Gage laughed when Harlan collapsed again.

"You're human!" Harlan spat.

"Nice of you to notice," said Gage.

"Then… why? Why are you working for them?"

"See, that's the problem with you Hunters," said Gage, "To you, the world is all black and white. Good and evil. Monsters against humans. I'll tell you something… I've never seen a demon creative enough to come up with half the things ordinary people do to each other every single day."

"You sonofabitch…" Harlan hissed, "I'm gonna kill you…"

"Er… I think you've got that backwards, old man."

Gage turned back to his bag. He kept his eyes on Harlan, and relished the look of terror on his face when he took out the machete."

.

.

.

Gage stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

It was a thing of beauty, he had to admit.

Harlan was stripped naked, his hands nailed securely to the boarding above the door, like some obscene home version of the crucifixion. His legs were broken, and his body was covered in a series of cuts, lacerations and burns.

Gage had spent a whole six hours working on him.

The old Hunter had begged, pleaded, bargained, offered up his soul, but Gage had taken no notice. He wasn't a crossroads demon. What was he going to do with the man's soul anyway?

He was busy twining a length of barbed wire around his victim's mid-section when his cellphone beeped. He wiped his hands on Harlan's discarded clothes and checked it for messages. It was from a number Gage knew by heart. It wasn't long, just a quick set of instructions. Gage grinned.

"Sorry, H, ol' buddy," he said, "We're gonna have to cut this short. Got another job, and time's a wastin'."

Bending down to flip through his kit, he emerged with a dirk he'd bought of an old voodoo lady back in Louisiana. The blade was thirteen inches long and wickedly sharp.

"Looks like your old partner John's gonna have company soon," he said, "His own son. Dean Winchester stuck his neck out. And I'm gonna drive this straight through it."

Gage held the dirk up in front of Harlan's puffy eyes. The beaten man mewled pitifully, unable to talk. Gage inched the blade across his cheek, and down the side of his neck, to that soft crook just underneath the jaw.

Then he slammed it home, and let the old Hunter choke on his own blood.

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	9. Side of the Road

…**side of the road…**

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.

.

_And I feel that time's a wasted… go_

_Where ya goin' to tomorrow?_

_And I see that these are lies to come_

_Would you even care?_

_And I feel it_

_And I feel it_

_Where ya goin' to tomorrow?_

_Where ya goin' with that mask I found?_

_And I feel, and I feel_

_When the dogs begin to smell her_

_Would she smell alone?_

_._

"Can we please play something else?" asked Lisa.

Dean smirked, and lowered the volume – just a little.

"You don't like Stone Temple Pilots?"

"I love them. They were my soundtrack for the nineties, it's just…"

"What?"

Now Dean bothered to lower it so she could talk without shouting.

"There's just something I… I think about everytime I hear this song."

"What?" said Dean, again, very curious now.

Lisa sighed, "Alright, I was in a bar in Nevada and a guy paid me a hundred bucks to… dance… to this song."

Dean nearly swerved off the road.

He swore, swinging the wheel back to get the car under control. Once they were safely between the lines again, he turned to look at her.

"You mean like… dance-dance?"

"I mean dance!"

"Yeah, but like… dance-dance?"

Lisa laughed.

"You have a sick mind, Dean Winchester."

"I woulda paid more than a hundred bucks to see that," said Dean.

"You _have_ seen that," she reminded him.

"Oh yeah…"

Dean's voice went all dreamy for a second and he got a goofy grin on his face. Lisa shook her head, smiling to herself. _This_ was the Dean she remembered.

She'd missed him.

Although, she understood why Dean could never be that happy and carefree again. The story he'd told her that morning – about the war between heaven and hell, and the roles he and his brother were destined for – was enough to smack the whimsical out of anybody. Lisa was amazed Dean was still relatively sane.

They'd been driving for a few hours, heading steadily south. Their destination was northern California – to the one person Dean said he still trusted. He was determined that Lisa would hole up there, while he tried to figure out a way to avert the end of the world.

Lisa had argued, at first. She'd listened to Dean's protestations – that he'd be in even more danger if he had to worry about her too – but had eventually decided to just give in. If only to shut him up. Truth was, she had no intention of letting him leave her in California – or anywhere else.

She'd already been attacked by a demon, and a weird shadow-monster-thing, so the way she saw it, she was invested. She was in this fight. To the end.

"So, you've found nothing in the last two weeks that can help?" she asked, after a couple of miles.

"No strategy," said Dean, "I have the rings, and the sword, but… He's just too strong. He'd vaporise me, or anyone I know, before we got a chance to use them. I just don't see a way in."

"You'll find a way," she said.

"How do you figure?"

"Because it's what you do," she said, simply, "You're a hero."

Dean frowned, turning to look at her. She seemed perfectly calm, staring out at the landscape as it whipped by under the dying sun. Truth be told, he was amazed how well she was holding up. Before he'd busted in the window, she was fighting the demon. She'd fought the monster at Bobby's too. There was no give in this girl. Dean admired that.

"We gotta stop here," said Dean, pointing to a sign for a gas station a mile ahead.

Lisa nodded. Dean turned off the road, bumping over the rutted entryway, and swung into the almost deserted lot. The gas station formed the back end of a series of buildings, mostly car dealerships, on the outskirts of a mid-sized town. They had a diner, and Dean told Lisa to get them a table while he filled up the car.

Lisa trudged across the tarmac, and through the glass-plated door of the diner. There were only three other customers. A couple, somewhere in their thirties at a booth halfway down, and a young boy, maybe eighteen, reading a book at the far end of the counter. The cook was a big man, putting Lisa immediately in mind of someone who played some college football, then let himself go once he graduated.

Lisa headed past all of them, and slid into the booth against the back wall. A minute later, a waitress appeared through the swing doors leading to the kitchen. She had frizzed up hair and a very tired expression on her face. She approached the table, and just waited for Lisa to order something.

"Two coffees, please," said Lisa, "And a menu."

"Menu's on the wall, sister," the waitress jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Lisa looked up, and saw a blackboard with the day's specials – not many of them – written on it.

"Okay, thanks," said Lisa, "Just the coffees for now. We'll order the rest when my friend gets here."

The waitress shrugged, as though she really couldn't care, and disappeared behind the counter. Lisa folded her hands on the table, humming softly to herself.

"Because, we can't go to Tucson!"

Lisa glanced at the couple in the other booth. They were in the middle of an argument.

"Why?" asked the man.

"Because, Marge said the big cities are where it's worst," said the woman, "People are going crazy. They're attacking each other. We should just… stay out of any of the big cities for now."

"Sure," the man huffed, "Because Marge said so! Marge is the expert on everything, and definitely the person that I want telling me how to run my life."

"It's not safe!"

"We'll be fine!"

Lisa squirmed, uncomfortable. She didn't want to be listening in on their argument. She caught the eye of the young man with the book and they shared a rueful smile.

The door opened, letting a chilly blast of air in from outside, and Dean stepped into the room. He walked briskly over to the booth, and slid into the seat next to Lisa. Lisa scooted over, surprised that he chose to sit there. Dean must have noticed, because he quickly explained.

"I like to sit with my back to the wall," he said, "Facing the door. For safety."

Lisa studied his face, and noticed the telltale blush creep up his cheeks. She grinned.

"Oh, really?" she smirked, "So… it's not because you love me, and when you picture yourself happy, it's with me?"

Dean groaned, "I was wondering when you'd bring that up."

Lisa chuckled, "It's okay, Dean," she said, rubbing her hand over his bicep, "I'm just messing with you."

Dean's eyes shot down, staring at her hand. Lisa, who hadn't even been aware of the gesture, quickly snatched it back. Dean met her eyes. Suddenly, the years folded back…

A spark lit between them. From his eyes to hers, it pulsed with an energy that touched off a longing deep inside the core of her body. Her breath quickened, and she felt her skin flush. Dean, too, seemed to feel it. She saw his mouth part ever so slightly, and the pupils of his eyes dilate.

"Ready to order?"

The spell was broken.

Dean and Lisa jerked their eyes away from each other, to the bored waitress. She was waiting, pad in hand, chewing bubble gum. Their coffees were on the table.

"I, er…" Dean tried to compose himself, "I'll have a bacon cheese burger."

"Two," said Lisa.

"With extra fries," said Dean.

The waitress rolled her eyes and hustled off.

Without the waitress to distract them, Dean and Lisa found they couldn't look at each other. Lisa studied her fingernails, while Dean gazed out the window. The silence drew out between them like a blade. Lisa shifted in her seat.

"Listen, Dean…" she began.

"Shh…" Dean cut her off, raising a finger to his lips.

He was still staring out the window, squinting, like his attention was elsewhere.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Without answering, Dean shifted himself out of the booth. On impulse, Lisa followed. She had to hurry to keep up as Dean jogged towards the door. He pushed it open and stepped outside. A second later, Lisa joined him.

Now that they were in the open air, Lisa could hear something. It was faint, though… a discordant noise coming from beyond the row of lots.

"What is that?" she asked.

Again, Dean didn't answer. He was facing east, his head up, looking at the sky. Lisa turned to follow his gaze.

The sky beyond the buildings was… wrong.

The sun had fully set, so there was no reason for the strip of red-gold illuminating the horizon she could see beyond the buildings. It swept across the sky, and seemed to be flickering.

"They set the town on fire," said Dean.

"What?"

"Come on!"

Dean grabbed her hand, dragging her back towards the diner. Lisa still felt a twinge on her injured side, but followed without complaint. Dean charged into the diner.

"Get out of here!" he shouted, "Get into your cars, and get out of here!"

"What?" the burly cook swung on them.

Disconcertingly, he was waving a carving knife.

"You all need to get the hell out of here!" said Dean, "Something's going on in town! I don't know how much time you have."

"What do you mean something's going on?"

This was from the husband at the booth. He stood up, coming towards them, frowning with deep suspicion.

"I don't know what's happening," said Dean, keeping remarkably patient, "But it looks like it's on fire."

"Like what's on fire?"

"The town!"

"It's true!" Lisa cut in, "We need to get away."

"I don't appreciate you two coming in here and causing trouble," the cook was rounding the counter now.

"Harry, maybe we should go," the man's wife stepped up to him, taking his arm.

"No, Tina, this is ridiculous! People are just spooked by what they're seeing on the news."

"They're spooked for a reason," said Dean, "Because some spooky stuff is going on. And it's going to happen here, soon."

"Says you!"

Dean pulled a face, and looked for a second like he might actually swing at the guy. That's when the other young man spoke.

"Guys… I don't think we're going anywhere…"

Everyone turned round to look at him. He was standing by the window. Dean and Lisa rushed up so they could see outside.

A crowd of people were hurrying across the blacktop, coming right for them. Fifteen, twenty people. Some of them had sticks, others burning torches. All of them looked angry.

"Crap!"

Dean backed away from the window and grabbed the cook by the front of his stained shirt.

"Lock the doors!" he ordered, "Is there a back way in here?"

"Yeah," said the waitress, "Through the kitchen."

"Lock that too!"

She hurried through the swing doors as the cook, seemingly convinced by the mob descending on them, curled a heavy chain through the bars across the door, locking it firmly.

"Everyone else, get behind the counter!" Dean ordered.

Harry grabbed his wife and, together with the young man, they crouched underneath the register. The cook followed.

"Lisa, get back," said Dean, taking a Beretta M9 out of his inside jacket pocket.

"No," said Lisa, grabbing her own gun and standing square on to the window.

"Dammit, Lisa, please!"

"No!"

Dean didn't get a chance to argue further, because at that moment, the first crazy person with a torch took a swan dive through the window.

.

.

.


	10. Tracking 101

…**tracking 101…**

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.

.

The blood had dried, coagulating into a darker, heavier goo that could only be scraped away. Once the swarm of flies covering the body took to the air in protest, Gage could see that maggots had already formed in the gaping hole in the kid's throat.

They'd get the chance to work their way through the decaying flesh. The raging apocalypse had stretched emergency services beyond breaking point. Not that this was an emergency. Nobody had even reported the body yet.

Gage returned to the counter, and checked the register. He found the second to last entry and made his way to room 7. The door was open.

Another body.

The window was smashed and there was evidence of a fight. So this is what had happened to their informant. At least the fool had been bright enough to call in Lisa Braeden's location before allowing Dean Winchester to carve open his windpipe.

Finding nothing else useful in the room, Gage approached the bank of telephones. The action had probably gone down the night before. Gage had a theory. He'd tracked a lot of people in his time – Hunters and civilians. Hunter's were smarter, in general, but people tended to follow certain instinctive principles.

For instance, when trying to hide, they would attempt to put as much distance between themselves and the perceived point of danger as possible. Following that logic, Gage should have checked the phonebook for motels at least fifty miles away.

He didn't do that. Because, Gage knew, Dean Winchester was smarter than that. He knew anyone tracking him would assume that he'd try to go far. Therefore, Dean would stay close.

Gage checked the listings for motels within a five mile radius instead. He was willing to bet his not inconsiderable fee that Dean had spent the night in one of them.

.

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.


	11. Dine with the Dead

…**dine with the dead…**

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.

.

Dean's Beretta was the preferred handgun of the US Army. It used a fifteen round staggered magazine, that fired a 9mm Parabellum and was effective at a range of up to 150 feet. Lisa's Walther P22 only carried ten rounds and would most likely miss at a distance of over ten feet.

So, they had twenty-five bullets in total and the range wasn't a problem.

All of that meant less than nothing two seconds after they started shooting. Dean realised they weren't just dealing with deranged people when he shot the first intruder in the shoulder. The man, snarling like a rabid dog, just kept coming, forcing Dean to put one between his eyes.

These weren't people. They were zombies, infected with the Croatoan virus.

They literally swarmed into the breach created by the smashed window, not caring when they gashed themselves on the jagged shards still lodged in the frame. Lisa and Dean both concentrated their fire on the mass of heaving bodies right in front of them and just kept on pulling the trigger.

Lisa ran out of ammo first. Dean noticed and, still shooting, grabbed her with his free hand and flung her over the counter. Then, he bent down, grabbed a heavy barstool and hurled it into the face of a Croat trying to shove it's way over the dead bodies in front of it.

Lisa got lucky – she didn't hit the ground. Instead, she landed on the quivering body of the cook, who was curled into the foetal position, covering his head with his hands.

"What are you doing?" Lisa yelled over the pounding gunfire, "Aren't you going to help?"

The man just let out a scared little moan and kept shaking. With a snort of disgust, Lisa tore her attention away from him. Harry and Tina were huddled together, their arms wrapped protectively around each other. The young man who, up until five minutes ago had been peacefully reading a book, was cowering a few feet behind them. Lisa scanned the underside of the counter, looking for anything she could use to help Dean.

_Jackpot!_

Of course, the ideal weapon for close quarter fighting would be a pump-action shotgun. Using a 12 gauge 00 buck shell, the purpose of a shotgun is to fire dozens of tiny pellets in a continuously expanding cloud, known as a kill spread. The effect, at a distance of about eight feet, would be devastating to any soft target – namely a human body.

Lisa didn't know any of this when she grabbed the shotgun lodged on a rack underneath the register. She was a yoga instructor, and had studied ballet until she was sixteen. She was very co-ordinated, and so she simply repeated the process she'd seen countless times in the movies – wrenching back the slide on the underside of the barrel – even as she rose up in a perfect pirouette.

"Dean! Get down!"

Dean hesitated for only a second, using the time to throw a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw the shotgun, and hit the deck, skidding backwards until his head smacked against the counter. He heard the boom of the shotgun going off, and a rain of blood splattered all over him as five Croats took it straight in the face. He heard Lisa rack the slide and fire again. And again. And again.

Then came that eerie, echoing silence that descends after a gunfight. Dean's ears had closed up, and there was a faint buzzing along his temples. He rose on unsteady legs, and turned to face Lisa. She looked shell-shocked.

She was still holding the shotgun, but her arms had dropped to her sides, as though she couldn't bear the weight anymore. Her eyes were wide, and freakily still. She was breathing heavily and looked like she was about to throw up. She was also covered in blood.

After a few seconds, she flicked her eyes across to Dean. She offered him the tiniest, most vulnerable smile, before she burst into tears.

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.

.

Dean, his back aching, his arms like lead, dragged the last Croat – or what was left of him – behind the dumpster at the side of the diner. Rubbing the sweat from his brow with his jacket sleeve, he went back inside.

Lisa was out of the bathroom. She'd spent fifteen minutes in there cleaning up and composing herself. Now she was perched on the edge of a table, sipping a cup of coffee.

The cook, Lester, the waitress, Ann, and the kid, James, as well as Harry and Tina were all slouched around the room, in various stages of shock.

"What… what were those things?" asked James, after Dean had helped himself to a cup of java.

"People," said Dean, edging up onto the table next to Lisa, "They were infected with a virus. It's called Croatoan. It turned them into… well… what you saw."

"A virus?" said Harry, "What kind of virus can do that to a person?"

"It's mystical," said Dean.

"How did they catch it?" asked Tina.

"Blood. They feed on other humans, and if blood meets blood, the victims turn."

"But…" Lester took a wary step back, "You two… You were covered in blood."

For a brief second, Dean allowed his annoyance to show. He didn't point out that the reason he and Lisa had been covered in blood was because they had bothered to fight.

"We don't have any cuts on our skin," said Dean, "Not exposed anyway. If we were infected, we woulda chomped on you guys fifteen minutes ago."

Draining the coffee, Dean hopped off the table. He held his hand out to Lisa.

"Ready to go?"

She nodded. Setting her mug aside, she took his hand and stood.

"Wait!" said Harry, "Where are you going? What are we supposed to do now?"

"Run," Dean advised, "I don't know where. This plague's gonna spread, and it's just the start. Maybe there isn't any place safe. In the meantime, keep a gun on you, and…" here he turned to Lester, getting up in his face, "Next time they attack, have the stones to pull the trigger!"

Taking Lisa by the hand, Dean stalked outside. He held open the passenger door to the Impala and she slid into her seat. Dean closed the door and rounded the hood, climbing in behind the wheel.

As always, the guttural roar of the 427 kicking in filled Dean with an odd sense of calm. As long as he was at the wheel, he felt like he was in control. He clicked the car into gear, but didn't move.

Lisa squinted at him in the dim light.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you okay?" he asked again.

"I'm fine, Dean."

"Are you sure?"

"For now… yes," she said, "Tomorrow, or the next day, I don't know, I just…" she took a breath, "Right now, can we just… drive, please? Can we do that? I just want to get on the road. I want to feel like I'm going somewhere."

Dean smiled.

"You're something else, you know that?"

Dean gunned the engine, ripping out of the parking lot in a shower of gravel. They hit the blacktop, and just drove.

.

.

.


	12. On the Trail

…**on the trail…**

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.

Gage picked up the trail again at the third motel he checked.

It was easy enough getting rid of the night manager. A hit of chloroform and he had the run of the office.

Gage was grateful for Dean's old-fashioned sense of chivalry. After the attack at the last motel, Dean had probably figured that Lisa wouldn't like to stay in another seedy, rundown hole on the side of the road. He'd chosen a place a rung above the rat traps that Hunters were used to staying in.

Nicer place = more security = credit card and ID check.

Dean was in the system.

Gage was perfectly aware that Dean would probably have a stash of ready credit cards at hand, none of them bearing his own name. The time frame, and the fact that Dean had booked out a room with two single-sleepers, gave him the name he wanted: Tom Rosenbaum.

Back in his car, Gage fired up his laptop. Tagging onto an NCAP tracking system, Gage entered the name and card number. It was a long shot, but Gage was hoping to get lucky. Here, again, he was counting on human nature.

Like most Hunters, Dean would change up his ID, as well as his credit card for every job. In the middle of a getaway, though, the first instinct is to do what any other person would do, slip the credit card back into it's slot in your wallet. And then… whip it out when you need to use it again.

A couple of minutes later he got a hit. A rest stop outside Scottsbluff Nebraska. They'd stopped there for gas.

Gage had a direction, and felt the curious stirring of a thrill at the thought.

This was his biggest Hunt yet. Dean Winchester. Absolute number one on the hit list of every demon in hell and elsewhere. With a bullet.

This score was going to make him Midas rich…

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	13. In Darkness Found

…**in darkness found…**

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.

It was getting onto three in the morning, and Dean was tired. The shootout, the cleanup, the whole of the last two freakin' weeks was beginning to weigh heavily on him. Oddly enough, last night was the first time he'd had a decent night's rest in as long as he could remember. But that only added to his exhaustion now.

Glancing over at the passenger seat, he saw that Lisa was still awake. She had one leg tucked up onto the seat, hugging herself and staring out the window.

Dean was worried about her. She'd shown extraordinary bravery so far, but Dean knew it was no easy thing to open up a shotgun on a group of people. The fact that she hadn't hesitated spoke volumes about her character. But he also knew that, inside, she was a gentle, loving person. In her own mind, she'd count it as murder. And it must be tearing her up.

Dean didn't know what to say to make her feel better – and it killed him that he couldn't make it all okay.

Returning his eyes to the road, he concentrated on the stretch of black unwinding in front of him. The journey was taking a lot longer than it should. It was necessary to avoid the highways, and often they had to take detours down roads that, six months ago, Dean would have killed rather than submit the Impala to.

At the moment, they were passing through a section of fairly peaceful farmland. Dean hadn't seen another car for almost thirty miles. He was grateful that he didn't have to detour again, but the monotony of the flatlands was getting to him.

He yawned.

"Pull over," said Lisa.

"I'm okay," said Dean.

"No, you're not. Pull over."

Dean didn't argue. Truth was, he could use a break. He slowed down, and bumped the car up onto the grading off the road. He killed the engine.

Leaning back, he rubbed at his face, trying to bring some circulation back. He opened his door and hopped out. The road stretched out to either horizon, seemingly endless, and Dean couldn't see a light anywhere. But it was a clear night, and the stars hovered so close he felt like he could reach up and touch them.

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, and just drank in the stillness.

Lisa got out of the car and started pacing up and down in front of him. He just watched her. She was wearing a thin cotton top, and she shivered as she walked.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"You're not leaving me," she said.

Dean was thrown. That wasn't the topic he'd had in mind.

"What?"

"In California. You're not leaving me."

"Lisa, we talked about this."

"I don't care."

"After what happened at the diner…"

"What happened at the diner is all the proof I need," she said, her voice hard, her expression unyielding, "You would have been killed in there if I wasn't with you."

Dean was stumped for a second. It was true. He would have fought. There was a chance, a very slight chance, that he would have saved those people. But the only reason he walked out without a scratch was because of her.

"It doesn't matter," he said, hardening again, "We're not talking about killing a gang of Croats. We're talking about taking down the Devil! Lucifer! The archangel!"

"I know what we're talking about."

"Then you know that this is crazy! You can't come with me!"

"You're a fool, Dean Winchester…"

She turned her back on him, moving off a little way and just staring out into the distance. The moonlight hit the white top she wore and she seemed to glow for a second.

"You can't do this alone," she said, still not looking at him.

"I have to."

"Why?"

Now she turned around, but kept her distance. Dean felt pinned by the intensity of her gaze. He kept quiet. After a few, drawn out moments, she stepped closer, still holding him with her eyes, and asked again:

"Why?"

"Because it's my job," he said, softly, "Because it's my fault. This wouldn't have happened if I just…"

"What? Killed your brother? You think you failed somehow? You think that's a weakness?"

"We had a plan," said Dean, "Sam was going to take the leap, but if he couldn't… if he wasn't strong enough to beat the devil inside, it was up to me to end it. He trusted me to do it and I let him down. I let everybody down."

"You didn't let me down," she whispered, "And you're still here. You're still fighting. You can find a way, but I'm telling you… you can't do it alone."

Dean found the strength to look away. He clenched his jaw, trying to stem the flood of emotion that threatened to rage up from inside – from a place he thought he'd dried of tears. Two weeks ago, his heart had vanished. Ripped from him in a single moment when he looked into his brother's eyes, and saw Lucifer staring back at him.

Dean had believed he'd died there, in that church. Sure, he was walking around, still plotting, still scheming, but he wasn't alive. Not anymore.

Now, here was someone who was looking at him like he was still worth something. Someone who wanted to stand beside him. Someone who knew the ghost of Dean Winchester… and refused to let go.

"If I have to watch you die… that's it for me," Dean lost the battle and a single tear escaped down his cheek, "If I have to go through that…"

Lisa stepped in close. Raising her hand, she brushed the tear away with a touch so tender it made him shudder.

"Then we make sure we win," she said.

"It's not that simple."

"I know," she said, "But I have to believe. I do believe."

A gust of wind snuck up on them and she shivered again. Dean opened his coat, and she wound her arms underneath the fabric, clasping her hands behind his back. Dean drew the jacket around them, relishing the feel of her body pressed against him. Lisa rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes, trying to capture the moment and hold it.

Out here, it was so easy to believe that there was no apocalypse. No battle to the death waiting for them on the other side of the sunrise. It was a dream, she knew, but a dream she wanted so desperately to cling to.

"It doesn't matter, Dean," she said, "What are the chances of either of us living through the week – if I'm with you or not?"

"Not much," he admitted.

"Then don't do this. Don't push me away."

"I just… I wish it could have been different," he said, "I wish we could have had a different life. You, me, Ben… A house somewhere. Sammy and Ben fighting over how to decorate the Christmas tree… I wish…"

She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him.

"Me too."

"You really want to stay?"

Lisa drew back a little so she could meet his eyes.

"Yes."

"You have to tell me why," he said, "Because if I agree to this, we're going to a place where we can't come back. We win or we die, there is no third choice. So… you have to tell me why."

"Because…" she said, "I think… maybe… I love you."

"Oh, really?" Dean smiled, "You think? Maybe?"

"Yeah," Lisa laughed.

It was a sad laugh.

"I think… maybe… I love you too."

He kissed her. And the world went away.

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**.**


	14. Giving Statements

…**giving statements…**

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Lester Rodin was getting edgy.

He'd spent the last two hours running through his story with the police, and he still wasn't sure he believed it. Little wonder the police didn't seem to believe him either.

Lester ran over his testimony again in his head; it was a normal evening in the diner. There were five customers. One of them, a man in his late-twenties, maybe early thirties, had warned them that the town had been set on fire and they were in trouble. Next thing Lester knew, a mob of angry townspeople had attacked the diner. The guy and his girlfriend had guns on them, and started shooting into the crowd. Then the girl got hold of the shotgun – yes, the one registered in Lester's name – and finished them off with that.

"Are you sure that's everything?" asked the hard, horse-faced female cop.

"Yes," said Lester, "Listen, you gotta believe me. I mean, look at the town! People were going crazy last night!"

"We know," said her partner – a walking cliché of the fat cop in love with doughnuts, "But nobody reported as many fatalities in one incident as you."

"You can ask Ann when she gets here," said Lester, "She'll back up everything I'm saying."

"When is she getting here?" asked horse-face.

Lester scowled. He was beginning to suspect that Ann wouldn't be getting in ever again. He didn't know why he'd bothered showing up himself this morning. He wasn't even allowed inside, now that the police had cordoned it off and labelled it a crime scene.

All three turned when they heard the sound of a large engine rumbling into the lot. A massive black Hummer pulled up next to the tanks, and a man in a black suit got out. He had sunglasses on, and didn't bother to take them off when he approached. Instead, he reached into his inside pocket – causing both cops to inch their hands closer to their weapons – and pulled out a flip-folder ID.

"John Corben," barked the suit, "FBI. You are?"

Immediately cowed by the badge, both officers' demeanour shifted. They lowered their heads, unwittingly offering the Agent the edge.

"Sergeant Calhoun, sir," said the man, "This is my partner, Sergeant Greaves."

"Wanna tell me what happened here?"

"Well, sir, we got the call this morning…" Greaves began.

"I wasn't asking you," Corben cut her off, "I'm sure you two have reports to file while I interview the witness?"

Lester could see both cops bristle, insulted to be dismissed like that in front of a civilian.

"Excuse me, sir," said Calhoun, "But this isn't a Federal case."

"It is now," said Corben, "Now, for the second – and last – time, I want to speak to the witness."

Looking like children who'd had their favourite toy snatched away, Calhoun and Greaves retreated to their squad car. Corben turned to Lester.

"Tell me everything that happened," he said.

So, Lester did just that. Again. When he was done, he pleaded:

"You gotta believe me. I didn't kill those people. I didn't fire a shot!"

"No, you didn't," said Corben, his voice dripping with derision, "You let a woman grab your gun and take on the monsters for you."

Lester's mouth dropped open. He felt like he'd just been slapped. The Agent whipped off his glasses, and Lester found himself staring into the darkest, most merciless eyes he'd ever seen.

"Now…" said Gage, "Tell me which way they went."

.

.

.


	15. Fear and Afterglow

…**fear and afterglow…**

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.

.

For Lisa, last night had been everything she remembered… and so much more.

Putting the Impala's large back seat to good use, they had surrendered to each other.

It was different this time…

There was no passion, but they made love with an aching tenderness.

After, they lay wrapped in each other, falling asleep to the sound of their own breathing.

Her emotions were swirling.

Being with Dean had eased a longing she hadn't realised she'd been holding onto, but had also awakened something new. No matter the magic of the moment, they couldn't escape the reality of the world they were in, and now, Lisa was really afraid.

Despite being the one who convinced him that the moment, and it's magic, were all they had, Lisa knew that you could only mourn for something lost. And the possibility was very real that they would lose each other, before this was all said and done.

She guessed that Dean was thinking along the same lines.

As they ate their breakfast – a couple of candy bars, and two tall cups of strong black coffee – again, on the side of the road, she watched him. He was quiet, contemplative. He kept his eyes fixed on a point in the sky, obviously deep in thought.

"Do you regret it?" she asked, hating herself for voicing this fear, but unable to contain it, "What we did last night, I mean…"

Dean frowned, and didn't answer for a good five seconds.

"No," he said, eventually, "But it did… change things."

"What?"

"I know it looks like I've just been on the run," he said, "Going underground, trying to keep a step ahead of Satan's dogs, but… truth is I've been trying to find a way in. An angle that'll let me beat him this time."

"So… what's changed?"

"It's a suicide mission," he said, simply, "There's no other way of looking at it. If I take him on, even if I win, he'll kill me for sure. And before last night I was fine with that. I didn't have anything to live for."

"And now you do?"

"Now I do," Dean hung his head, but a soft chuckle escaped his lips, "God help me, but that scares me more than the Devil himself."

"Why do you think you'll lose?" she asked, "I mean… isn't there a chance you could get away with it?"

"Not now," said Dean, "He's in his true vessel. He's a full-on Power Ranger. Before…? Maybe. But not now."

"So Sam is the key?" said Lisa.

"Sam's gone."

The depth of his grief, carried in those two words, almost took her breath away. She studied his face. He was holding on… but just barely. What had happened to his brother had done more than break Dean's heart. It had stolen his sense of identity. His purpose.

Lisa remembered his father's words in his journal.

"_I have drilled it into Dean that Sammy is his responsibility. He's eight years old, and I've told him his brother's life is in his hands…"_

For as long as he could remember, Dean's job was to protect his brother and, in his own eyes at least, he'd failed.

Lisa scooted across the Impala's hood until they were touching. She put an arm around his shoulder. He didn't pull away.

"There has to be something," she said, stubbornly, "Something we're not seeing. Somewhere inside, a piece of Sam has to still be there."

"I don't think so," said Dean, "Possession is different. It's not like ghosts. Spirits act on their own. They remember who they were, most of the time. When you're possessed, you're awake, but you have no control."

"You said your friend Bobby managed to resist it once."

"He was going to kill me," Dean explained, "And that was just some stunt demon, not Lucifer. I don't think the threat of killing me is strong enough to snap Sammy back into control."

"Then what is?"

"I told you, I don't know!" Dean sounded annoyed now.

"Easy, tiger," she said, smiling an easy smile, "I'm just thinking out loud. Maybe we can trigger something. Tell me about him."

"Who, Sammy?"

"I didn't get to know him, really."

Dean sighed, "Where to start?" he said, "Sammy… Sometimes we both thought he'd always been cursed. Especially when we found out that he was the reason our mom died. He was the vessel, and Yellow-Eyes killed our mom to prepare him. It worked, too… Even before the angels, and the vessels, and the whole… trippy apocalypse thing… Sam was just so angry all the time. At my dad, at me… And after Jess…"

"She was his girlfriend, right? At school?"

"Sam's friend killed her," said Dean, "Or a demon who was wearing his friend. She died the same way our mom did. I can't even think about what she went through…"

Lisa went quiet. She stared at the dirt, thinking hard. Dean noticed the shift in her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"This friend of yours," she said, "In California… You said he could help us find the Devil?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Do you think he can bring the Devil to us?"

"What?"

"He'd have a reason. Lucifer wants you dead. What if we just chose the playing field?"

"What playing field?"

Lisa hopped off the hood, and rounded the car to the passenger door.

"I'm not sure yet," she said, "I have to check something in your dad's journal. And there's a story I want you to tell me again. But don't worry, you can answer my questions on the way."

"To where? California?"

"Just drive, champ," she grinned, "Maybe this doesn't have to end the way you think it does."

.

.

.


	16. Call to Madness

…**call to madness…**

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.

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Dean felt a sharp twinge in his chest as he glanced over at the seat beside him. Lisa had commandeered every book on the occult buried in the Impala's trunk, and was propped up with her back to the window, two volumes open in her lap, reading intently.

To Dean, it was like having Sammy riding shotgun with him all over again.

Indeed, all of the books were Sam's. Dean had stashed them next to the guns and sacks of rock salt and made a conscious effort to forget about them. At the last stop for gas, Lisa had excavated every single one, and had spent the whole day devouring every word.

One minor difference was that Lisa didn't mind him playing the radio while she read. Sam let Dean listen to music too, but it was always accompanied by a round of bitchy back and forth between them.

"_This isn't helping, Dean!"_

"_It's Metallica! Come on, Sammy, you love Metallica!"_

"_I hate Metallica."_

"_Bit your tongue, heathen!"_

Dean smiled a crooked smile. He kinda missed that.

They shot past a sign a sign telling them they would reach Damascus, Utah in ten miles. After that, it was a straight run to Cedar City, and the Nevada border. Dean flicked out the tape that was playing and switched to the radio. It was a hit and miss operation. Some radio stations were still broadcasting. Others were silent… maybe for good.

Dean was keen on any news he could find, so, tuning into the local station, he turned up the volume:

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

Startled, Dean reached out and switched off the radio.

"What was that?" asked Lisa.

"No idea," said Dean, "It's the local station. Sounds like it's playing on a loop."

Hesitant for some reason, Dean switched it on again.

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

"Is that… Latin?" she asked, "I took it in school, but I can't remember much."

"Yeah… I'm not too clued up on it myself," Dean admitted, "Sammy was the one who got all hot for dead languages."

Before any awkwardness could creep in, Dean swivelled the tuner, searching for another station. He found a song… gentle, melodic, and let it play…

_And I'll be dreaming of the future__  
__And hoping you'll be by my side__  
__And in the morning I'll be longing__  
__For the night… for the night_

_Chances are I'll see you__  
__Somewhere in my dreams tonight__  
__You'll be smiling like the night we met__  
__Chances are I'll hold you_

___And I'll offer __a__ll I have_

_You're the only one I can't forget__  
__Baby you're the best I've ever met_

"What the hell?"

Lisa was almost thrown forward into the dashboard as Dean slammed on the brakes. She stuck out a hand, bracing herself as the car skidded to a halt.

"Dean!"

He ignored her. He was staring out the windshield. Lisa propped herself back up on the seat and swivelled around.

There were people everywhere.

They were just walking, crossing the road from the left and disappearing into a stand of trees on the other side. There were hundreds of them, but unlike their encounter with the Croatoan-infected, these people were calm… almost listless.

They didn't talk. They didn't even acknowledge the car in their path. They just eased to the side of it, and carried on, like the ocean parting for a rock.

"Okay, my weirdar's just gone to Defcon Two…" Dean muttered, following the figures as they passed in front of them.

"Where are they going?" asked Lisa.

"I dunno," said Dean, "But I think we gotta find out."

"They're like zombies," Lisa shuddered, "Like… they're in a trance or something."

Easing the car to the side of the road was simple. The people were aware of them, and moved out of their way. Once they were out, Dean made sure he locked the doors, just to be safe.

He stepped in front of a middle aged man, who looked like a schoolteacher. The man stopped, and just waited, seeming to look right through Dean.

"Where you goin', pal?" asked Dean, "There a Wal-Mart openin' around here, and you folks can't wait to get a taste of the big city life?"

"Dean!" Lisa chided him.

Dean studied the man. He didn't move. He didn't even seem like he heard him. Dean stepped aside, and the man carried on.

"Okay… make that Defcon One…"

"Should we follow them?"

Lisa came to stand next to him, watching the stream of humans being drawn east.

"We have to," said Dean, "Damn code!"

"What?"

"It's something our dad taught us…" said Dean, "No matter what – no matter where you have to be – a Hunter never passes up a job."

"And this is a job?"

"Does it look normal to you?"

"Dean, I think we left normal a long time ago."

Dean stalked around to the back of the car and popped the trunk. With quick, practised movements, he propped the fake base using a shotgun as a stand. He selected weapons, handguns with live ammo and shotguns loaded with rock salt for himself and Lisa. On impulse, he drew out a small brass amulet and handed it to her.

"It'll stop you getting possessed," he said.

Lisa didn't ask questions, just strung it around her neck.

Holy water, Ruby's old demon-slashing knife, and Dean was all set. Locking the trunk, they joined the flow of people and left the road.

Lisa stayed close to Dean's shoulder as they passed into the copse of trees. The boughs were thick overhead and the fading sun didn't penetrate. Suddenly, it was so cold. Soon, they left the trees behind and emerged into an open field.

Here, it wasn't dark.

The townspeople had gathered in a huge circle, hundreds wide and at least ten ranks deep. At the centre of the circle, the guttering flames of a huge bonfire pierced the early evening sky.

Dean and Lisa edged closer. They could just see over the heads of the people, still as carved statues.

A man was raised on a kind of bier next to the bonfire. He was short, portly, balding and he wore screwy wire-frame glasses. He was wearing a tweed suit. He had his hands raised up and he was talking to the crowd.

"Kinda looks like George Kastanza…" said Dean.

"Who?"

"You know… from Seinfeld?"

"Right…"

They edged closer, until they could hear the man's voice. It was high, off key, like a child throwing a fit.

"_Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_ he shouted, _"Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

Dean froze. The same chant they'd heard on the radio.

Abruptly, the strange little man switched to English.

"The hour of your salvation is nigh, my brothers and sisters…" he called, "Come… come, and find your sweet release. Offer yourselves to your god, and know rest!"

"What the hell is going on here?"

Stepping in front of Lisa, Dean edged his way through the crowd. They didn't block his way. In fact, with the slightest touch they would step aside, letting him through. They didn't look at him. Their eyes were fixed on the man by the fire, enthralled. Dean broke through to the front, and stopped.

His blood froze.

A dozen people were kneeling in a rough circle in front of the fire. They were crouched over a large, burnt husk, and were ripping at it with their nails and teeth – gorging themselves.

Even worse, Dean saw a young woman with light brown hair step up to the edge of the flames.

"Lie down, my sister..." the man implored her, "Find your paradise… _Deo agri sons of vir… Adeo vestri fatum…"_

Lisa appeared beside Dean, and they watched in horror as the woman stepped up onto the bonfire. She didn't cry out as the flames licked at her, and her clothing caught alight. With a calm, serene look on her face, she just lay down, even as her hair burst into flame.

Dean was totally numb for a second, watching the macabre feast before the flames, and the new meal offering itself up to be roasted. Then he clicked into gear.

"No!"

Charging forward, Dean levelled the shotgun. The man stopped his chanting and looked right at him. Dean fired.

The shells exploded against the man's chest and he was thrown backward.

The people munching on the body stopped. They knelt there, backs straight, just staring at nothing. Dean tried to reach into the fire to pull out the girl, but the flames were ten feet high and he couldn't get close.

"Dammit!" he yelled.

"You can't stop us."

Dean looked up. The man was back on his feet on the platform. He was smiling down at Dean like a fond parent.

"Oh yeah?" Dean whipped out the Beretta, "We'll see…"

"You can kill me Dean Winchester," said the man, "But you can't stop us. It's too late."

"How do I know who I am?"

"Stupid question."

The man turned, that same fond, creepy smile on his face. Dean swung around. Lisa was walking towards them, her gun raised. She kept her eyes fixed on the man above, looking determined.

"Hello, Lisa…" he greeted, "It's nice to see you."

Lisa didn't answer. She just pulled the trigger.

The shots rang out like thunder, and Dean saw them slam home into the man's torso. Blood spewed out from the exit wounds as the bullets tore right through and he collapsed.

His eyes were still open. He was still smiling. Lisa walked right up to him and pressed the gun to his temple.

"Do it…" croaked the man, "It won't change anything. It won't change your future."

Suddenly, he started laughing. It was a full, hearty laugh, only spoiled when he started coughing up blood.

"He's going to let you die…" the man chuckled, "To save his brother. He won't try to stop it."

Dean almost choked.

"Lisa…"

He stepped forward, but she ignored him. She pulled the trigger again, and the man's face disappeared in a crimson spray.

Lowering the gun, Lisa looked around.

"You think the spell's broken?"

Dean shrugged. A few of the people were swaying on their feet. Some had collapsed.

"I guess…" he said.

"Good," she said, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Turning on her heel, she stalked back through the crowd. Dean didn't have any choice but to follow. This time, the people didn't make way. They didn't resist, but they seemed incapable of moving. Dean and Lisa had to shove through them. Once they broke free of the massed ranks, Dean hurried to catch up with her.

"Listen, about what that guy said…"

"Forget about it," said Lisa.

"Just like that?"

"Yes, Dean, just like that."

She stopped, suddenly, and Dean almost ran into her. She turned to face him, and he saw a glint of anger in her eyes.

"Do you know who that was?"

"No," he said, "But I'm guessing you do."

"It's not hard to figure out," she said, "I read about them."

"Them?"

"False prophets. They will speak with the tongues of angels, and the sons of men will follow their voices."

"We didn't," Dean pointed out.

"Maybe it takes a while to effect us," she said, "It was playing on a loop on the radio."

"And we have the hex bags," Dean reasoned.

"Exactly."

"Wait a minute," said Dean, "What do you mean 'them'? There's more than one?"

"A hundred and forty-four, actually," said Lisa, "Revelations says they'll rise up in the last days."

"Great…" Dean muttered, "If one of them can make a town think they're all walking Happy Meals, these guys are gonna cause some damage."

"All the more reason to finish what we started," said Lisa.

"So, you're really okay?" asked Dean, "About what he said?"

"He was a _false_ prophet, Dean. I'm not going to let some evil sonofabitch make me doubt what I know in my heart is true."

Dean smiled. Cupping her chin in his hand, he kissed the top of her head.

"I repeat," he said, "You're something else."

Slinging an arm around her shoulder, they walked back across the field.

"The way you took him out was totally bad ass, by the way..."

"You liked that, huh?"

.

.

.


	17. Solemn Gathering

…**solemn gathering…**

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.

.

When Gage rolled through Damascus, he didn't need to resort to the fake FBI Agent schpiel. The town was abandoned. Gage eased the monster vehicle through deserted streets – the rumble of the engine echoing off the buildings like the inside of a canyon.

He emerged into the town square, and saw the first sign of life.

A group of men, dressed in black suits, were gathered at the centre of the road, where First Street met Main. The crossroads.

Gage parked the Hummer and got out.

As he walked towards the group, he noted that they were gathered around a body lying on the road. Gage smiled to himself. He knew why they were there.

"So…" he said, "Which one of you got ganked?"

As a group they turned to face him. They looked like a motley collection of stockbrokers, on their way to a country club. All middle-aged, all Caucasian, all boring as paint to look at. They were not impressed.

"This is not a matter for you, Stalker," said one, "Our brother has fallen."

"Yeah, I get that," said Gage, "Which one? Sneezy… Dopey…?"

One of the men, a guy so fat he'd probably need three seats on an airplane, lunged towards him. Gage didn't even flinch.

"You mock that which you do not know!' screamed Fattie, spittle flying.

"Do you know who did this?" another stepped forward, looking grave.

"I can hazard a guess," said Gage.

"Tell us."

"No."

"We can compel you…"

"Try."

The challenge was thrown down, and Gage could feel the heat in their stares. They loathed him. He didn't a flying fu–

"This is my Hunt," he said, "Boss's orders."

"Someone has culled one of the brethren," Fattie was beside himself with rage, "We must seek retribution!"

"The guy who did this will pay," said Gage, "Trust me. But you won't have any part of it. Just go back to what you were doing… your jobs! And let me do mine."

"The day will come when there will be a reckoning, Stalker," said a tall man with an emaciated face, "We are legion, and we do not forget."

"What are you talking about?" Gage smiled, "That little mix-up in Omaha?"

"You destroyed the holy temple!"

"I just redecorated a little bit… with a flame-thrower," Gage shrugged, "Anyway, gotta go. I got a prophet killing madman to catch."

The prophets let him go. They were many, and their power fierce, but if the Stalker claimed to be acting under the Master's orders, they dare not disobey. Once the Hunt was over…?

That was another matter

.

.

.


	18. Under Pale Moonlight

…**under pale moonlight…**

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.

.

"Sweet! This place is the business!"

Dean laughed, traipsing down the centre of the entrance hall. Lisa followed, rather more sedately, behind him. She glanced up the chandelier, the size of a shed, handing from the ceiling. Two staircases wound up either wall, to a landing high bove. Off to the sides she could see more, and more massive and beautifully furnished rooms.

"I don't know about this, Dean…"

"Oh, come on, Lisa B," he flashed her that little boy smile, "Live a little! The people who own the place aren't using it."

"Where are the people who own it? Where are all the people on the block?"

"Run off… killed…?" Dean shrugged, "Either way, they aren't here."

They were in Cedar City, and it was getting late. After her experience with the demon, Lisa had sworn off motel rooms, so Dean hit on the idea of squatting in an abandoned house.

"One advantage of the apocalypse…" he said, "You get to pick and choose your real estate."

"But this is someone's home," she protested, unable to fully verbalise why the idea creeped her out.

"Yeah," said Dean, "And judging by the look of this place, I bet they have an awesome shower."

Lisa groaned, "You do know your audience."

Dean chuckled.

"You get the first crack at it," he offered, "I'll get on the phone with some contacts, see which way the wind is blowing."

The temptation of a long, hot shower proved too much. Giving Dean a quick peck on the cheek, Lisa all but raced upstairs.

.

.

.

Dean was right. The shower was intense. Sticking her head under the powerful rush of scalding water, Lisa felt her throbbing muscles slowly start to relax. The spray pounded every knot into submission and she just basked in it. The previous occupants hadn't packed a thing. There was a full rack of soaps, creams, lotions and body washes. Feeling like she hadn't been clean for a year, Lisa used a little bit of everything.

The force of the shower was so intense, so loud, that she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her back. Whirling around, her foot slipped and she fell. Dean got an arm around her, and managed to hold her upright.

"Easy, girl…" he said, "It's just me."

"You scared the hell out of me!"

"I thought it would be a nice surprise," he pouted, knowing full well how adorable he looked when he did.

"What did you think was going to happen, Dean?" she teased, "You strip down, climb in the shower with me and we just get it on?"

"Well, in a word… Yeah!"

Lisa laughed, snaking her arms around his neck. Her bare breasts crushed into his chest. The water and the oil on her body made her slick to the touch. Dean held on.

"Good call…" she whispered.

.

.

.

"I was in middle school," said Lisa, "And there was this guy… His name was Corey."

"Lame-ass name," muttered Dean.

Lisa ignored him, "He'd been held back a year so he was bigger than anybody else in our class. A real bully. Anyway, one day he was picking on a friend of mine, Shawn. He had him up against the fence, and he was choking the life out of him. Shawn turned blue."

"Did you do something?"

"Bet you ass, I did something," she said, "I walked right up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned around… I drove a knee right into his… well… the place he only ever wanted to be treated nicely."

Dean laughed. They were in the master bedroom, on a massive king-sized bed that felt like it had more in common with a cloud. Dean propped himself up on one arm and looked at her.

"And you got so bent out of shape when I taught Ben how to do that," he observed.

"Of course I did," she replied, "I don't want my son turning out like me."

"He could do worse," said Dean, "Believe me."

He raked his eyes down the length of her body, barely covered by the clingy satin sheets. One leg was exposed, bronzed and shapely, caught in a shaft of moonlight through the window.

Dean couldn't believe it. That he could have a night like this… with a girl like this… when the world outside was falling to pieces. He decided not to question it. The bubble would burst soon enough.

"Your turn…" she said, "Stupid thing you did as a kid."

"Well, I don't know if this qualifies as a stupid thing _I_ did," said Dean, flopping back and gazing at the ceiling, "When Sammy was six he found out about superheroes. I had a buncha comics, and he tore through every one. Superman was his favourite…"

Dean's voice trailed off as he drifted back in his mind's eye. The quietest moments they'd ever had on the road had been when Sammy was curled up on the back seat, his nose buried in a brightly coloured comic book. Dean suspected that's why their dad had indulged Sam's love of the things. Just to shut him up.

"Anyway," he said, snapping back to the present, "We were in Hartford once, and my dad let us go to the town fair. There was this psychic woman with this weird stall. She sold all these amulets, and charms and incense and crap."

"Crap?"

"Trust me," said Dean, "We know the real stuff when we see it."

"Okay," she conceded, "Continue…"

"I bought this ring, and I told Sam that it would give me the ability to fly. Of course, once he heard that, Sam had to have it."

"You tricked him?"

"We were competitive," said Dean, "Oh, I put up a fuss. Told him there was no way I'd give up my magic ring, and as soon as dad left I was gonna go up onto the roof and take to the sky. Then I put the ring under my pillow when I went to sleep."

"He stole it?"

"Of course he did. He was good, too," said Dean, "I almost didn't wake up. He put the ring on, and climbed up on the roof."

"What happened?"

"He broke his leg," said Dean, "Then the cry-baby ratted me out. My dad tore me a new one. My defence was that if he was stupid enough to steal it, he was stupid enough to take the punishment. My dad didn't pay much attention to that."

"What was it like?" asked Lisa, "Growing up, I mean. To someone on the outside, it sounds kinda cruel. Two kids growing up without a real home… always on the road, but you and your brother… it sounds like you were close."

"We were," said Dean, "We had to be. With my dad off on jobs so much all we had was each other, so… I guess you're right. Something good came out of it."

"Are you scared?"

"What?"

He shifted over again so he was lying on his side. Her face was inches from his own, and he read the concern in her eyes.

"When we catch up to the Devil, he's going to look like Sam," she said, "Do you think you'll be able to do what you need to do?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, "I won't know until I'm in it. Does that make you scared?"

She shook her head, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I trust you."

She said it so simply, with so much assurance, that his heart swelled.

"You've spent your whole life protecting him," she said, "It's so much of who you are. I think… when it all goes down… you'll realise that this is the only way to save him."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to burn the truth of that into his soul. She was right. Sam was as much a victim here as anyone – probably more so. He was stuck in there with Lucifer. So, like always, Dean had a job to do. He had to save his brother.

"Can we not talk about this?" he pleaded, "Can we just… lay here tonight?"

Lisa scooted over, flinging an arm across his chest. She kissed him. It deepened, until Dean reached out, cupping his hand in the small of her back, drawing her even closer.

The world, and it's problems, could wait.

Tonight, there was the moonlight, and the perfume of her hair. There was the bliss of her kiss, and the heat of her body moulding against his.

And for tonight, it was enough…

.

.

.


	19. Broken Sky

…**broken sky…**

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.

.

The storm of storms broke over the desert.

Biblical in it's wrath it tore across the barren plain. The blinking lights of Vegas were shattered by bolts of nature's fire. It's crafted buildings, erected to pierce the sky and defy God with the genius of man, creaked and swayed in the torrent – some to breaking point.

People bolted themselves inside, most seeking shelter underneath the all-forgiving earth. And for the first time in forever, they prayed as one…

For deliverance.

For salvation.

Dean was praying too.

As he fought with each passing second to keep the car on the road that now resembled a river, he prayed continuously.

A mile…

Just another mile…

Just another mile.

Lisa kept her hands planted on the dash in front of her, staring at the tempest swirling just outside. Only just past midday it was black as darkest night.

"This is insane…" she muttered.

"It's mystical," said Dean, "He's up to something."

"What?"

Dean shrugged.

"Could be anything," he reasoned, "But by the looks of this…" he dared to take his hand from the wheel and gesture out the window, "It can't be good."

"How much further?"

Dean cracked a smile, "If you keep asking me that, young lady, I'm gonna turn this car around!"

"Dean! I'm serious!"

"Another hour," he said, "They'll be waiting for us in Manchester. It's just over the border, past Carson City."

"I hope this works," said Lisa, earnestly.

"I told them to get everything ready," said Dean, "We'll have a shot, at least."

"All we can ask for, right?"

"Right?"

They hit a dip in the road and the front end of the car smacked a thigh-high wave of water. They jerked in their seats as the weight of the car carried them through.

"I just hope we'll be, you know… breathing when we take it…" said Dean.

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.

.

Gage was having an easier time.

Much easier.

The rush of water, which was threatening to morph into a flood – and would, in a few hours, he reckoned – was not yet high enough to trouble his Humvee.

The monster machine was built for this.

Before it got all blinged-up for public consumption, it was built exclusively for use by the Army. Even the name was typical of the military. Humvee was actually derived from the acronym HMMWV - which stood for _High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle. _

Gage was reaping the benefits of it now. At this rate, he'd be catching up with the pair ahead of him much sooner than expected.

In a startlingly good mood, Gage actually started singing an old tune that popped into his head – for no reason whatsoever…

"_The devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal…__  
__He was in a bind 'cos he was way behind: he was willin' to make a deal…"_

Gage chuckled. That stupid little rhyme always made him laugh. As if the Devil was ever behind…

His cellphone started ringing. Frowning at the Caller ID, Gage pressed 'Send'.

"Gage…"

He smiled when he heard who was on the line.

"How far?" he asked.

He waited, then: "Do it."

Another pause, and: "Yes, she's safe."

A slightly longer pause: "You'll just have to trust me. I won't hurt her. Get this done… and everything will be fine."

Gage ended the call, and quickly redialled another number. He waited a few seconds for it to connect, then:

"It's me. They'll be in place in an hour. You know what to do?"

A couple of seconds passed.

"I'm making sure. I don't trust you freaks as far as I can spit you. If you screw this up, you'll be praying to a different god, I swear it!"

He clicked off abruptly, and tossed the phone onto the seat beside him. He cackled merrily, and started singing again.

"_If you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold… _

_But if you lose, the devil gets your sooooul…"_

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.

.

It was closer to two hours before they rolled into Manchester. Dean guessed that it was near sunset, but he couldn't tell just by looking. The angry bank of storm clouds overhead loomed like some giant creature summoned from the netherworld.

The streets of the town were completely deserted. Not that he was surprised.

Only complete nutjobs would dare to be out in this.

Which made sense, he supposed.

Dean angled the car north-east, following the directions he'd been given. It was slow going. Most of the street signs had been ripped out and were now scattered across the sidewalks. Along with mailboxes, park benches and the roofs of some house.

Eventually, Dean found the place.

It looked like a gothic manor, gone to seed. The gates, all moulded black iron, were wedged open, and Dean eased the car up the long, winding driveway. The trees on either side were old… huge oaks that nevertheless waved in the incredible wind. Dean parked by the large staircase leading to the front doors.

"Ready to make a run for it?" he asked.

Lisa propped herself on the seat, like a sprinter lining for a starter's gun. Dean had to lean into the door to open it. He held it while she dashed through, pelting up the stairs. He followed her, careful on the slippery tile. The last thing he needed was a cracked skull.

The doors were huge, carved into an intricate crest bearing the head of a lion. There was knocker, made of lead. Dean pounded on it.

"Come on!" he yelled, "We're not the angry mob here to kill the monster in your basement! Open up!"

The wind buffeted them, forcing Lisa to cling to his arm. The rain drops were shooting almost horizontally and they found no shelter in the small overhang above the doors. Eventually, they opened a crack and Dean shoved his way inside, dragging Lisa behind him.

"Calm yourself, boyo," said the dark-haired man who manhandled the door closed behind them, "You'd think it's the end o' the world, or somethin'."

"Cute, Patrick," said Dean, "Going ten yards in that stuff is like jumpin' in a freakin' pool!"

"Excuse my young friend's manners," said Patrick, ignoring Dean and stepping up to Lisa, hand extended, "I'm Patrick. You must be Lisa."

"Hi," said Lisa, shaking his hand.

Patrick smiled. He was obviously Irish. His long hair was worn in bouncy curls just down to his shoulders. When he smiled, his eyes actually twinkled.

"Did Dean tell you about me?" he asked.

"Just that you helped him out after what happened with Sam," said Lisa.

"No details on how I saved his arse from becoming a doggie-treat for a hellhound then?"

"Yeah, yeah, you saved me…" Dean waved a hand, as though he really couldn't care less.

"He also said you'd be able to help us with the spell," said Lisa.

"I should," said Patrick," I'm a nine-hundred year old witch after all."

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	20. From Beyond the Grave

…**from beyond the grave…**

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.

"You're a witch?" said Lisa, "I didn't know guys could be witches."

"If you're going to get all technical about it, I suppose you can call me a warlock."

"Look, we can swap life stories later," said Dean, "Are the others here?"

"Missouri's in here," said Patrick.

He led them into an old-fashioned parlour that looked like it had been lifted from a scene in an old Sherlock Holmes movie. Perched on the edge of a chaise-lounge, sipping on a glass of sherry, was a large black woman with wild, frizzy hair. She stood as they entered.

"As I live and breathe…" she said, "Dean. It's good to see you again."

"Missouri!"

Dean grinned and hurried over to her. Flinging his arms wide, he pulled her into a bear hug.

"You miss me?" she asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

Dean let her go, and introduced her to Lisa.

"She's a pretty one, Dean," said Missouri with a twinkle in her eye, "And you should hear what she thinks about you."

Lisa blinked, confused. Dean caught her expression.

"Missouri's kinda… psychic," he explained.

"Oh," Lisa didn't know what else to say to that.

"Now tell me what we're doing here," said Missouri, "Patrick said to wait for you. That you'd explain."

"First…" Dean turned to Patrick, "Where's Cas?"

"I'm right here."

Dean jumped. Lisa let out a little squeal when a handsome man with bright blue eyes, wearing a tan overcoat, popped up between them – right out of thin air.

"How many times have I told you not to do that?" asked Dean.

"Thirty-seven times," answered Castiel, promptly.

"You're Castiel…" said Lisa, her voice wrung with awe.

Castiel turned to look at her, his gaze filled with open, frank curiosity.

"Yes," he answered, "And you are Lisa."

"Wow…" she breathed, "An angel… It's… it's a little overwhelming."

"Is it?"

"You get used to it," said Dean.

"I don't think so," said Lisa.

"It's interesting," said Castiel, turning back to Dean, "Meeting a human who displays the appropriate amount of respect for my presence."

"Get over it," Dean huffed, "Let's get this party started."

"Follow me," said Patrick.

He led them through the maze of rooms inside the manor, down two staircases, into the bowels of the building.

Patrick paused at the bottom of the stairs. It was cold down here. The walls were bare stone, and dripped with moisture. Mildew sprouted in the cracks. Ahead of them was a large metal door, boasting a hefty iron bolt. Patrick swung back the bolt with a wave of his hand and led them inside.

The room was dark, but the sound of their footfalls echoed back as though they were passing through a large cave. Another wave of Patrick's hand, and several torches bracketed to the walls sprung to life.

It looked like a cave – a hollow dug straight out of the earth.

"Rich iron deposits in the soil all around us," Patrick explained, "Devil's Traps and Enochian wards on the way in. As close to a prison as we're gonna get."

"Let's hope it works," said Dean.

"Let's hope what works?" Missouri cut in, "You still haven't told me what I'm doing here."

"We're going to perform a summoning," said Patrick.

"And who exactly are we gonna summon?"

Patrick flicked a glance at Dean, who had to smirk.

"Lucifer," he said.

"Are you crazy?" Missouri took an unconscious step backward.

She searched their faces, trying to tell if they were joking or not. They weren't.

"It's game time," said Dean, "We end this tonight. One way or another."

Lisa approached Patrick, who was crouched against the wall, digging in a canvas sack.

"You've got everything you need?" she asked.

"Sure," said Patrick, removing several items and placing them on the floor, "Candles, incense, mellowood, wolfsbane, the skull of a rabbit skinned under a full moon…"

"Ew…" Lisa backed away.

"Relax, love," Patrick grinned, "We've got enough for both summonings."

"Both?" Missouri was confused again, "Who else are we–?"

She was cut off by the sudden chirp of a cellphone blaring Led Zeppelin's _Ramblin' On_. Everyone turned to Dean, who looked sheepish.

"How do you even get reception down here?" asked Patrick.

"Sign of the apocalypse," said Dean, fishing the phone from his pocket, "When everything's hunky-dory, you can't make a call standin' next to a cell tower." He put the phone to his ear, "Hello?"

"Dean?"

Dean's breath caught in his throat. He went very still.

"Dean, are you there?" the voice came again.

It took a couple more seconds before Dean found his voice, "Bobby?"

Patrick and Castiel swung round at the sound of the name. They all took a step closer.

"Yeah," said Bobby, "It's me. Where are you?"

"Where are _you_?" Dean countered, "You've been missing for weeks!"

"I know," Bobby's voice sounded laboured, as though he'd just run a huge distance, which was impossible since his legs didn't work. "I'm in California. Palo Alto. There were these demons… a gang of them. They jumped me at home. I've been locked in a basement."

"Then how are you making this call?"

"They all just jumped ship tonight," said Bobby, "I don't know why. I got out of the basement, but I had to crawl to the house next door to get to a phone. Not the easiest thing in a storm to end all storms."

"Just tell me where you are," said Dean, "I'm with Cas. We'll come and get you. Can you see a… an address book or anything somewhere around there?"

"Yeah, they got the address on a slot on the phone," said Bobby, "83 Hillcrest Drive."

"We'll be there in two minutes," said Dean, "And Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to hear your voice," said Dean, his own voice cracking.

"You too, son…"

The line went dead. Taking a deep, grateful breath, Dean put his phone back into his pocket. Turning to the others, he started laying out orders.

"Patrick, start getting everything ready. Missouri, Lisa…? Can you help him?"

"Sure," said Lisa.

"Good. Cas?"

"Let us go," said Castiel.

Dean and the angel hustled to the door.

"Dean," Lisa called.

He stopped. She hurried up to him, offering a sweet, swift kiss.

"Hurry back."

Dean nodded. Lisa watched as they passed through the door and up the stairs. Before they reached the top, Castiel put a hand on Dean's arm and, in the blink of an eye, they were gone..

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	21. Sigils and Surprises

…**sigils and surprises…**

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.

Lisa watched with mute fascination as Patrick went about his business. He worked quickly, but methodically, occasionally asking Lisa or Missouri to hand him one strange object or another.

With swift, sure strokes he drew a circle on one side of the room, eight feet in diameter. Inside the circle he drew a pentagram. In the outer hemispheres, he sketched a series of bizarre sigils and numbers.

Then he repeated the process on the left side of the room, using a thick, amber liquid from a different can.

"What is that?" asked Lisa.

"Holy oil," Patrick explained, "Works like a devil's trap for angels."

"Even Lucifer?"

"He's an angel, isn't he?"

"Well, that's debatable," Lisa mumbled.

"What am I doing here, Patrick?" asked Missouri, "Summoning Satan…? That's a bit out of my league."

"Don't worry, my darlin'," said Patrick, "I'll prepare the summonings. You're just here to talk to the spirit."

"What spirit?"

"Shh…!"

Lisa swung round, suddenly. Patrick and Missouri threw her questioning glances.

"I heard something," she said.

They all strained their ears.

And there it was. A shuffling coming from outside the door.

"Must be Dean and Castiel, back with Bobby," said Patrick.

The next second, though, the door was flung open, and a gang of teenagers, all dressed in raggedy black clothing charged into the room. Lisa and Missouri instantly fell back alongside Patrick. The invaders, led by a tall, pimply-faced boy with a tattoo of a skull on his cheek, stalked to the middle of the room.

"The hot one," said the leader, "She's the one we want."

"Who the hell are you?" Patrick took a step forward. He turned his palm outward, gathering his power, "Demons can't come in here."

"We're not demons," the leader sneered, "We're Satanists."

He said this simply, like: _"We're boy scouts."_

"What?"

"Sa-tan-ists…" The boy repeated, slowly, "Now get out of our way you foreign pig!"

"Oh, boyo…" Patrick chuckled, "You don't know what you just stepped into."

"It's okay," said Lisa, coming forward, "If they're humans, this will work just as well."

She reached under her jacket, and drew out two nine-millimetre pistols – presents from Dean. She levelled them on the leader, and the sidekick just behind him. The Satanists shrunk back instinctively.

"I suppose," said Patrick, "Do me a favour and shoot 'em quickly, will you? This takes a lot of concentration."

He turned his back and crouched down over the second circle. As he reached for the paintbrush, stars exploded in his mind. For a second, Patrick couldn't register what had happened. He felt a massive blast of pain in the back of his head. His vision swam. And then everything went black.

It took a few long seconds before Lisa could even react.

She heard Patrick grunt, and swivelled to her left. She saw Missouri standing over him, the long black cudgel held in her hand. Lisa took all this in, but it refused to register. What was Missouri doing?

Only when she saw the drops of Patrick's blood dripping from the end of the weapon, did Lisa's brain finally click into gear. She swung towards the older woman, bringing the pistols to bear. Unfortunately, she took her eyes off the psychotic youths in front of her.

The leader sprang forward like a feral cat. He tackled her with a vicious spear, bearing her to the ground.

Lisa's head cracked against the floor… and everything went dark.

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	22. This Devil's Dance

…**this devil's dance…**

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.

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Hillcrest Drive was a long sloping road that ran from the summit of a bluff overlooking Palo Alto, and snaked all the way down to the flatlands that housed the city. The house itself was perched like a bird at the very edge of the crest, and offered a stunning view of the vista below.

Actually, it looked more like a nightmare to Dean.

Castiel had transported them to the porch in back of the house. From their vantage point, they had a perfect view of the destruction that had rained down on the city. Even the neverending downpour couldn't quelch the scatter of fires that had sprung up all over. Buildings had collapsed, bridges given way. It looked like a series of vengeful tornadoes had torn through the place.

Dean guessed the boudy count had climbed into the millions, and was still rising.

"Good God…"

"This is not His doing," said Castiel, coming to stand at his shoulder.

Dean tossed an annoyed glance the angel's way, and decided not to comment.

"Let's just get Bobby!" he said.

The door was open. Dean led the way into the house. They passed through a spacious, but nicely furnished kitchen, into a corridor that wound both ways and ended in doors at either end.

"Bobby!" Dean called out, "Bobby!"

A thrill of fear iced it's way up Dean's spine.

After two weeks as a prisoner, Bobby was in no condition to defend himself. Not if the demons who held him had come back, and decided to to search for their missing captive. Picking a direction at random, Dean charged through the house.

A bathroom. No luck.

Flinging open another door, he emerged into a spacious living room. In the dim light Dean noted, oddly, that there was a picture of a crying baby over the fireplace. Castiel appeared behind him.

"There's no one here," he reported.

"Damn!" Dean swore, "They must have got to him. We'll check the houses next door."

"It won't do you any good."

Castiel and Dean swung towards the sound of the voice.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Tall, garbed in a pristine white suit – it was Sam Winchester.

And yet… it wasn't.

One look at the creature… once glance into it's eyes and it was immediately apparent that the spirit, or the essence that had gone into making Sam, was absent.

He was fluid, and graceful, but in an alien way. Even Sam's hazel eyes had faded to a dull, almost lifeless grey. He smiled – if that was the word.

"Lucifer…"

"Bobby Singer isn't here," said Lucifer, "Bobby hasn't been… anywhere… for weeks."

"But–? "

Dean was flustered. He'd been prepping himself for this confrontation – this face-off. Psyching himself up in an effort to hold it together when he finally came toe to toe with the monster riding around in his brother's skin. But to have it happen here? Now?

"Dean… I'm at 83 Hillcrest Drive…" Lucifer mouthed the words, but it was Bobby's voice that barked out into the air.

Dean blinked.

"You tricked us?"

Lucifer's smile widened, "It wasn't hard."

Castiel took a step forward, slightly in front of Dean. Lucifer's eyes darted across to him, as though seeing him for the first time.

"Hello, brother," he said, the epitome of cordiality.

Catiel didn't respond, just kept a steady gaze fixed on the archangel before him as he manouvered his body so he was fully covering Dean. Lucifer seemed amused.

"I expected a show of bravado from the human," he said, "But you, brother… you should know better."

"I don't fear you, Lucifer."

"Really? You should."

Unable to contain himself, and take the proverbial back seat any longer, Dean pushed Castiel aside. After a moment's hesitation, the angel relented.

"What happened to Bobby?" said Dean.

""He fell," said Lucifer, "As soldiers do, in a war. You should be flattered, for his sake. I sent one of my best operatives after him."

"So, he's... dead?"

Lucifer smirked.

Memories of Bobby Singer – their friend, the closest thing Dean had to a father after his own father died – flashed in front of his eyes.

Bobby facing down a mass of Zombies.

Bobby stabbing himself while he was possessed.

Bobby calling him an 'idjit'!

And that smirk – that freakin' smirk! Seeing it on his little brother's face proved too much for Dean. With an anguished yell he leapt forward, fingers extended like talons.

Lucifer waved his arm and a force picked Dean up in mid-air and hurled him across the room. The same force blasted Castiel from his feet. Dean hit the far wall and crumpled in a heap.

"Go ahead…" Dean coughed, tasting the metallic sting of blood in the back of his throat, "Do it! Just do it, you sonofabitch!"

Lucifer cocked his head to the side, genuinely inquisitive.

"Do… what, exactly?"

"Kill us!" Dean spat, "That's why you brought us here, right?"

Lucifer threw back his head and laughed. The sound was so earnest, so… genuine, it creeped Dean out even more.

"I don't want to kill you, Dean," said Lucifer, "Not yet, anyway."

"Big mistake…" Dean hissed, "Cas!"

Lucifer jerked to where Castiel had fallen. The angel was on his feet. A flick of his hand and Lucifer was propelled back into the wall behind him. Dean surged to his feet. He reached inside his coat, and drew out a long blade. The handle was extended, perfectly spherical, with a two foot blade. Cast in solid mercury, it seemed to draw in all the light around it. Dean raised it above his head and prepared to charge.

But he couldn't move.

Lucifer was back on his feet. That gleeful, self-satisfied expression still evident. Castiel tried to get to Dean, to help him, but he was frozen too.

"My sword…" said Lucifer, "That's the second time you've tried to stick me with it. And we all know how well that strategy worked before."

His words tore into Dean like chains of fire. Visions flashed inside his skull, burning white hot in their clarity.

_Sam, cast in the light through the stained-glass window in the church in Maryland. _

_That other light, like the heart inside the sun in the instants after Sam said 'Yes'. _

_Sam's face, twisted and tortured, as he battled bravely – so bravely – against the evil force piercing him from inside his own soul. _

_And the look his eyes… the desperate pleading… "Dean… do it! Kill me! Dean, please!"_

Dean screamed. Tears rushed down his cheeks, mixing with sweat that coursed as thick as blood. He fell to his knees, sobbing, wailing, the pain clawing out from deep inside of him.

Lucifer stepped around the writhing human on the floor, his face once again a mask.

"You're remebering it, aren't you?" he said, his tone conversational, "You remember how miserably you failed."

"Kill me…" Dean begged, his heart openly, earnestly begging for it, "Kill me…"

"No."

With a gesture, Lucifer raised Dean to his feet. He stepped around until Dean was staring into those eyes that weren't his brother's anymore.

"Killing you would bring me no satisfaction," he said, "But _turning_ you…"

"No!" Castiel grunted.

Dean could see him out of the corner of his eye. The angel was sweating, so fierce was his fight to break free of Lucifer's psychic grip.

"In anient times there was a city, forgotten now, called Memnoch…" Lucifer began.

"Oh, Lord, not another bedtime story…" Dean moaned.

Lucifer carried on as though he hadn't heard him.

"The city came under siege by a massive army. They surrounded the walls, cut off the flow of the river to the city. For sixty six days the army camped, waiting for the citizens to die of starvation, thirst and plague. Then, the invading general sent a messenger to the king of the city. He came with a simple proposition. "Sacrifice ten newborn children to our god, and we will spare your lives."."

"Is there a point to this?" hissed Dean, "You said you didn't want to kill me, so I assume you're not trying to bore me to death."

"What do you think the king's response was, Dean?" he asked, "What would your response have been?"

"The same thing I'm gonna tell you now," said Dean, "Screw you!"

Lucifer chuckled, genuinely amused.

"We'll see," he said, "We'll see if you're capable of committing a small sin, in order to prevent a larger one. I'm betting you are, and when you do… you'll be mine. Michael's vessel!"

For the first time, Lucifer's face wrenched into an ugly, malignant grimace.

"The earth-bound, stinking parody of my older brother!" drops of spit flew from his lips, "I will have you, Dean Winchester. Before the storm outside dies, you will be mine."

The force holding Castiel and Dean suddenly vanished. Both collapsed to the ground like puppets with their strings cut. Lucifer cast one lingering, scornful gaze across them.

"I'll leave the sword with you," he said, "To add to your choice. You'll find who you're looking for three miles north of the witch's house. An abandoned college campus."

"What the hell are you talking about?" said Dean.

"You're about to make a choice," said Lucifer, "Sam's memories are pretty clear on this… You called yourselves _Team Free Will_, did you not?"

"So?"

"So, you'll have a chance to exercise that free will when you find her gone."

Dean blinked.

Lucifer had disappeared.

Dean couldn't breathe. The fear inside swelled, swirled, and started to rage. He turned to Castiel, and saw his own terror mirrored on the angel's face.

"Get us back," Dean begged, "It's Lisa!"

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	23. Heart Rent Asunder

…**heart rent asunder…**

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.

Castiel transported himself and Dean back onto the stairs leading to the cell.

The trip was instantaneous, but to Dean… it felt like lifetimes.

He tore down the stairs and burst into the room. The first thing he saw was Patrick, comatose on the floor. There was no sign of Missouri or Lisa.

"Check the rest of the house!" he called back over his shoulder.

Dean fell to his knees by Patrick's side, gently turning him over onto his back.

"Patrick? Patrick, wake up!"

Dean lightly patted the Irishman's face, but to no avail. Casting around, he dipped his fingers in the can of holy oil at Patrick's side, and ran them under the man's nose.

Patrick sputtered and coughed. But he woke up.

"Bleedin' hell!" he cursed.

"Bleeding's right," said Dean, "Are you okay?"

"Me head hurts a bit."

Closing his eyes, Patrick concentrated, until the goose egg on the back of his head receded and his mind cleared. He got gingerly to his feet.

"What the hell happened?" asked Dean.

"I dunno… those punk kids broke in – talkin' about takin' the hot one. Lisa had her guns on them, so I figured everythin' was under control. I bent down to finish the circle and…"

Patrick trailed off, a dazed look coming over his face.

"And what?" Dean prompted.

"There's no one in the house, or the grounds," said Castiel, striding through the doorway.

"I got knocked out,' said Patrick, "Jumped from behind."

"How the hell did that happen?" Dean wanted to know, "I saw you get hit by a car and walk away without a scratch!"

"Yeah, well, I did that on purpose, didn't I?" Patrick defended himself, "I have to be concentratin'."

"Who hit you?" asked Castiel.

"One of these… punk kids?" said Dean.

"No, couldn't've been…" said Patrick, glumly, "It was Missouri. She was the only one close enough."

"Balls!" said Dean, "Why would she do that? She was with Sammy and I when we found our mom's spirit! That's why I called her here! She couldn't have been possessed or she wouldn't have gotten into this room!"

"It was… what you call… a set-up," said Castiel, "Orchestrated by Lucifer. How else would… what did you refer to them as?"

"Buncha punk kid Satanists," said Patrick.

"Right, them," said Castiel, "How would they know to break in as soon as we transported to Palo Alto? Lucifer meant for this to happen. He must have coerced Missouri in some way."

"Lucifer?" Patrick was confused.

"Bobby wasn't in Palo Alto," Castiel explained, "It was a ruse. Lucifer was there instead. He sent his… people… to abduct Lisa."

"Yeah, well… I'm taking it out of their asses!" said Dean, "Lucifer told us where they'd be, so let's go!"

Dean strode towards the door, already checking the ammunition clips in his guns.

"Dean, wait!"

Dean stopped and turned back when Castiel called.

"What?" he said, beyond impatient.

"Think about this," said the angel.

"Think about what, Cas?" said Dean, "They have Lisa! Let's get to it!"

"Lucifer warned you that you would have to make a choice," Castiel persisted, "This is obviously a trap."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"If it is a trap, it must be sufficient to end your threat."

"Why?"

"Because, he suspects that we were planning something tonight. Missouri might very well have told him. He intends to stop us completing the ritual."

Dean paused, thinking hard.

It made sense. By snatching Lisa, Lucifer had driven all thoughts of the plan right out of his mind. But that was crazy, wasn't it?

"He couldn't have planned this," Dean argued.

"Why not?" Castiel shrugged, "He has access to Sam's memories. He knows the place Lisa holds in your heart. You told me when you called last night that she was followed to that motel. By a demon. Lucifer was having her watched. He knew you'd go to her."

"How?"

"Because when you decided to say yes to Michael, she was the one person you sought out. That's how Sam found you. You care for her, like… like you care for no one else except your brother."

"I hate to say it, but Darkwing Duck over here makes sense," said Patrick.

Castiel frowned, "Darkwing who?"

"So this is his plan?" Dean spat, "This is his big, stupid plan? Snatch Lisa so his cronies can finish me off?"

"And remove the one person left on this planet who can defeat him."

Dean fell back in a daze until his back hit the cold, unforgiving wall. It felt like reality was unravelling in front of him.

"That's crazy…" he muttered, "What do I do? How do I…? How do I win?"

"You don't."

Castiel's voice was painted in remorse. He crossed the floor until he came to stand before the man he had come to call friend.

"That was Lucifer's aim all along," he said, "Remember that story he told?"

Dean nodded.

"_We'll see if you're capable of committing a small sin, in order to prevent a larger one…"_

Dean's thoughts wound back beyond that… to the day in the field with Lisa,… and the false prophet's threat:

_"He's going to let you die… __To save his brother. He won't try to stop it."_

And he'd denied it.

For the love of all that was holy he'd refused to believe it.

He pictured Lisa now…

_The sight of her curled beside him in the bed last night… _

_Standing so steadfast and courageous by his side as the monsters came through the window…_

_Her face when she looked at Ben…_

Dean was surprised to find he had any tears left. But they came. They came in a torrent when he realised the choice that lay before him.

"No…" he choked, "This can't be happening… I can't…"

"I'm afraid so," said Castiel, laying a hand on his shoulder, "You have to complete the ritual, Dean. You have to kill the Devil."

A pause that stretched out before them like a chasm – draining all hope, and tearing Dean's heart in two.

"You have to let her die…"

.

.

.


	24. Bound to Pain

…**bound to pain…**

.

.

.

"I have a theory about pleasure…" Gage's voice slid out like a wreath of smoke, hanging in the air, "It's not… spontaneous. You have to take it. You know what the number one crime in this country is? Since your boyfriend and his brother flipped the switch on the apocalypse, that is…"

Lisa twisted in her bonds. She was hanging by her wrists, her feet dangling, and the pressure was wrenching at the wounds in her side.

Her cries were muffled by the gag in her mouth. The worst thing, though, was the blindfold. Tied so tight it made her dizzy, she couldn't see the man pacing up and down in front of her.

She could only hear his voice as he chatted away like they were old friends.

"It's rape," he continued, "You'd think it would be murder… but no. When you get right down to it – strip away that illusion of civilisation and let men revert back to animals… the first thing they do… is go seeking pleasure."

Lisa felt the cool brush of something metallic sliding under the hem of her shirt, just above her hip. She tried to twist her body away, screaming in protest, but her cries were cut off by the gag.

"I guess humans and demons aren't that different," Gage mused, "I mean… that's what that fool Silence, did, isn't it? We told him to watch you, but he was in your room. I'm guessing he wanted a taste of you."

His breath whistled against the side of her neck and Lisa cringed. She tried to struggle but it was useless. Her own weight bore down on the muscles of her shoulders, and it felt like someone had doused her side with hot oil.

She was getting weaker, and weaker…

Suddenly, he removed the blindfold.

Lisa blinked, even though the light in the room was not that bright.

The room itself was completely non-descript. Except for a bare table, there was no furniture. It wasn't large, and the wallpaper was cheap and peeling. The only attention seemed to have been paid to the bar bolted into the wall from which she hung.

The man came right up to her. She stared into his eyes – dark wells without a trace of pity. He wasn't bad looking, but there was something about him… an iciness, a lack of… something... that caused Lisa's heart to seize inside her chest.

"I went through a lot of effort getting to you," he said, "And I want some reward for it. I want to hear you scream."

Lisa's eyes flared in anger and, summoning some vestige of strength, she lifted her knee, intending to drive it right between his legs. He must have read the intention in her eyes because he dodged at the last second, and her kneecap connected with the flesh of his thigh.

The impact jolted the scars in her side, and a strangled yell was dragged from her throat.

"Spunk…" he smirked, rubbing his thigh, "I like spunk."

Stepping forward again, he untied her gag. As soon as it was freed from her mouth Lisa spat in his face. He just laughed, and wiped it away.

"Most women would be mewling wrecks by now," he observed, "But not you… I get what Dean sees in you."

"Who are you?"

"Gage," he said, "Terrence Gage."

"A demon?"

No," he smiled, "Just a man."

"Not much of one."

It was starting to annoy her that Gage seemed endlessly amused by her defiance.

"Is this the only way you can get your kicks?" she taunted, "Tying a woman up?"

"Not the only way, but it's up there," he said, "Anyway, that's not why I tied you up. You're a prisoner. We have to keep you here for an hour. That's what the boss said. Dean Winchester's got one hour to make up his mind."

"About what?"

"Whether or not he's gonna save you."

"He will," said Lisa, stubbornly, "And when he blows through that door, he's going to rip you apart."

"That in itself is doubtful," said Gage, "Even if he was coming. You know, I kinda hope he does. I hope love wins out on this one. I'd like nothing more than to be the one who sticks a shank into Dean Winchester. And I'd like you to watch while I do."

Lisa bit back her fury. She regarded him coldly, daring him to try something – even though she was in no position to defend herself.

"Excuse me," said Gage, "I have to make sure the boys are in position – in case Dean is stupid enough to come here. I'll be back soon, though… then we can get started."

He turned on his heel and marched out the room.

Lisa wrenched at her bonds, ignoring the pain, trying to find any give in the restraints.

There was none, and she sagged back down.

Sobs threatened to overwhelm her, but she held them back.

"Dean…" she whispered, "Where are you…?"

.

.

.


	25. Interlude

**Nickelback – Saving Me**

* * *

Prison gates won't open up for me  
On these hands and knees I'm crawlin'  
Oh, I reach for you  
Well I'm terrified of these four walls  
These iron bars can't hold my soul in  
All I need is you  
Come please I'm callin'  
All I scream for you  
Hurry I'm fallin', I'm fallin'

Show me what it's like  
To be the last one standing  
And teach me wrong from right  
And I'll show you what I can be  
And say it for me  
Say it to me  
And I'll leave this life behind me  
Say it if it's worth saving me

Heaven's gates won't open up for me  
With these broken wings I'm fallin'  
And all I see is you  
These city walls ain't got no love for me  
I'm on the ledge of the eighteenth story  
And all I scream for you  
Come please I'm callin'  
And all I need from you  
Hurry I'm fallin', I'm fallin'

Show me what it's like  
To be the last one standing  
And teach me wrong from right  
And I'll show you what I can be

And say it for me  
Say it to me  
And I'll leave this life behind me  
Say it if it's worth savin' me


	26. A Letting Go

…**a letting go…**

.

.

.

Castiel was worried.

Dean had not moved for a full sixty seconds.

He was pressed back up against the wall, his head tilted to the ceiling, his eyes shut.

If Castiel didn't know any better, he could have sworn Dean was praying.

Eventually, Dean lowered his head and met his friend's eyes. He pushed up off the wall, a pained, but grimly determined mask falling into place.

"Screw the world…" he hissed.

Dean swung away and stomped towards the door. Unable to teleport inside the cell, Castiel was forced to run after him.

"You can't, Dean!" he grabbed his arm, halting him.

Dean sagged.

"She's gonna die, Cas…" he choked, "Whoever he's got in there… they're gonna kill her…"

"I know."

"She just wanted to help me," said Dean, "This wasn't her fight. I gave her every chance to get away, but she wouldn't listen. She wanted to help. She wanted to stand with us."

"She was…" Castiel paused, searching for the right word, "A hero…"

Dean blinked back a tear.

"Heroes die…" he whispered.

Steeling himself, Dean came back into the room. Patrick had a soft, pitying expression on his face.

"Is everything ready?" asked Dean.

"Just about," said Patrick, "All I need are the remains."

Dean reached into his jacket pocket, and removed a small strip of plastic. It belonged to Sam. He used it as a bookmark. Inside, was a lock of hair.

"You can conjure things, right?" said Dean.

"Of course," said Patrick.

"Good. Conjure the incantations for me," he said, "Both of them."

"Why?" Patrick frowned, "Think I won't do a good enough job myself?"

"No," Dean shook his head, "You're not gonna be here."

"What?"

"Neither of you are."

Dean grabbed Castiel by the shoulder, locking him with his gaze.

"Cas… we're friends, right?"

Castiel looked perplexed. It was his default expression, but still…

"Yes…" he said, unsure where this was going.

"Then, can you do something for me?" asked Dean, "A… last request kinda thing?"

"Dean… what is it?"

"Go get her," said Dean, "The both of you. Go bust her out and kill every stupid sonofabitch standing between you and her. Please, Cas… Please! Do that for me!"

"You gotta be losin' it, boyo," said Patrick, "You wanna stay here by yourself? Cast two highly-complex spells and face off against the Devil on your own?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

Dean still hadn't broken his stare. Castiel could read him clearly.

This was it.

The end.

Dean knew it.

"This is between me, and him," said Dean, "It was always gonna come down to us."

After what seemed like an age, Castiel nodded.

"I'll save her," he whispered.

Dean's jaw clenched. The ghost of a smile whispered over his lips. He pulled Cas into a hug.

"Thank you."

Dean broke away. He offered a hand to Patrick, who shook it.

"You got a pair o' brass ones on ya, Dean Winchester," he said, "The luck o' the Irish go wit' ya, yeah?"

"You too."

Patrick clicked his fingers, and a sheet of computer paper appeared in his hand. A series of lines were printed across it in what looked like Helvetica Bold.

"What did you expect?" asked Patrick, catching the look on Dean's face, "An ancient scroll, or somethin'?"

Dean took the printout and studied the incantations. They weren't long, thank God.

Patrick led Castiel to the door. The angel paused on the threshold.

"Dean?"

Dean looked up at his friend, framed in the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"I am… unsure how to phrase this…"

"Just say it, Cas."

Castiel nodded.

"Kick it in the ass," he said, "Don't miss…"

Dean felt a stab at the familiar words. Ellen's last words to him, the first time they hunted the Devil. Cas backed away up the steps.

Then they were gone.

And Dean was alone.

.

.

.


	27. When Angels Fall

…**when angels fall…**

.

.

.

Lisa bared her teeth, stifling a sharp cry as the blade bit into the flesh just underneath her breast. Her shirt was sliced through in front, hanging open like a jacket, and her skin was streaked with streams of blood.

Gage moved slowly, his eyes focused and intent, as he made tiny little incisions across her body.

He admired this girl.

She hadn't screamed once.

"They're… going to… come… for you…" her words shot forth in ragged bursts as she gasped with pain, "Dean's not… alone. Castiel… Patrick…"

"Ah yes," said Gage, "The angel and the witch. Well, if they do come, I doubt they'll have much trouble with those wannabe Dark Princes outside. But what you can't see," he pointed beyond the door, "Is that this place is covered in Enochian symbols. The angel won't be able to get into the room, and he won't have any power to effect what's going on inside it. As for the witch…"

He tapped his chest. Lisa stared at the heavy brass amulet that hung there. It was circular, two serpents intertwined around a sickle moon. It looked like the serpents were devouring each other.

"I'm prepared," said Gage.

Lisa closed her eyes, trying to fight off a surge of despair. It seemed pointless to keep struggling. He had all the answers.

And she was getting so… so tired.

Lisa didn't even feel it when he made another nick. Didn't register the fresh spill of blood.

She thought of Dean.

She thought of everything he'd been through – all that he had lost.

And he was still fighting.

He wouldn't stop until he gave his last breath.

Lisa opened her eyes.

Gage looked up, and caught the hard, baleful stare. For the first time in almost forever, Gage felt a twinge on his insides. It was foreign, and it took him a second to place the feeling.

It was fear.

"We're gonna win this in the end…" she promised.

Gage opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden scream cut him off. There was an explosion and the room rocked, plaster showering down from the ceiling.

More screams, and the crackle of sudden electricity blitzing through the air.

"Looks like your friends are here," said Gage, "Don't go anywhere."

Without warning, he bent down, and drove the blade into the meaty part of her calf, ripping through the tendons and muscle. It lodged there, and Lisa let out a piercing scream.

Gage stood up, ignoring her blustering cries, and faced the door.

.

.

.

Dean was uttering every curse in his vast, and colourful repertoire. A stream of viscous words hit the air as he paced around the circle. He'd chanted the same thing ten times now and knew it by heart, but…

It wasn't working!

The first summoning, the spirit… It wasn't _damn well working!_

He checked the text again, checked the hair again.

Everything was exactly as Patrick had described.

Dean sighed. That could only mean one thing…

It was the whole reason he'd brought Missouri in on the case to begin with. To check for the spirit's presence. If it wasn't there, that meant it had moved on.

"Fine…" he muttered.

He glanced at the second incantation. It was a single line, Latin of course.

Dean took the rings from his pocket. They were thick, and heavy, cut from the fingers of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Each ring boar two flared sections, top and bottom. They were designed to fit on the ring finger of the right hand. One on top of the other. Twisting each subsequent ring would click them into place until they formed a solid band around the finger – first War, then Famine, then Pestilence and, finally, Death.

That was the key.

The key to Lucifer's cage.

Dean slid the first three rings into place. When he placed the final ring on top, he kept it carefully twisted sideways, so that it would require only the slightest flick to slot it home.

Next, he unsheathed Lucifer's sword, and faced the second circle.

"Oh well…" he mumbled, "Here goes nothin'…"

Dean tossed the scarp of paper to the floor. He didn't need it. He took out his Zippo and flicked it open. Ratcheting a flame, he chucked it into the circle. The holy oil caught fire and rustled up like a dancing circle of crimson flowers sprouting in the Spring time.

"_Oriens Astrum Exorior!" _he screamed.

Silence.

There was no clap of thunder, no gust of wind. No drama whatsoever.

One minute the circle was empty. The next…

Lucifer was smiling at him.

"_De' ja vu_," he said, "We have to stop meeting like this, Dean."

Dean said nothing.

Glaring at the Adversary, he raised his right hand, showing him the rings.

"Oh, come now…" Lucifer laughed, "We're not in Maryland. Those rings won't work here, you know that."

"I know," said Dean, "Just figured it was worth a shot."

He reached up, and clicked Death's ring into place.

Nothing happened.

"Plan B?" said Lucifer.

Dean held up the sword.

"Just as pathetic," Lucifer sneered, "To use that, you'll have to cross the fire and come to me."

"That's exactly what I'm gonna do," said Dean.

He all but flew across the room.

Caught off guard, Lucifer rocked back on his heels as the kamikaze human jumped the fire. The sword punched out, lancing into his shoulder. Immediately Lucifer's snow-white suit blossomed with a dark red rose of fresh blood.

With a roar, Lucifer tilted sideways, catching Dean with his free arm. He hoisted him high into the air, and piledrived into the floor across the ring of fire.

Dean screamed as the flames seared through the fabric of his jacket, gristling his skin. Lucifer planted a foot on his chest and, using Dean as a plank, he stepped across the flames.

As soon as the weight was off, Dean rolled free. His whole left side felt lame, useless. Still gripping the sword in his right hand, Dean scurried backwards across the floor.

Clutching at his injured shoulder, Lucifer stalked after him.

"Pitiful ape!" he yelled, "You dare to defy me? Me! The most glorious of God's creations! I was the Bringer of Light! The Angel of Music! The Morning Star! Who are you to defy me?"

Dean bit out a wry chuckle.

"Lucifer," he said, "You talk too much… Bitch!"

With a snarl, Lucifer sprang to the attack.

.

.

.

Gage stood his ground as Castiel and Patrick appeared in the doorway.

Castiel's eyes flicked up, and from side to side, catching the wards scrawled on the walls. He scowled at Gage.

"What's the matter?" asked Patrick.

"I can't get in," said Castiel.

Patrick nodded. The wards were invisible to him, but he'd guessed they would be there.

"Did you like the present I left for you?" asked Gage.

Patrick took a step forward.

"Missouri did nothing to you!" he hissed.

"No, but she outlived her usefulness."

"Lisa," said Castiel, "Are you okay?"

"Ignore her," said Gage, not bothering to turn around, "I'll get back to her when I'm done with you two."

Patrick advanced into the room. Stretching out his hand, he drew on his power, flinging it like a solid ball of force straight at Gage's chest.

Gage didn't move.

He smiled.

Patrick was startled. He'd put everything he had into that blast. The human in front of him should have been nothing but a smear of paste.

In a sudden blur of motion, Gage leapt forward. He caught Patrick on the side of the head with a clubbing blow. Patrick lurched sideways, trying to keep to his feet.

Gage was relentless.

He clambered all over the smaller man, hammering heavy blows into any part of him he could reach.

Ribs. Temple. Nose. Cheek.

Blood splattered, and he just kept on. Punching and punching.

"NO!" Lisa screamed.

Like a frenzied rat, Gage didn't pay her any mind.

Lisa sucked in several deep breaths, wincing as the cuts on her chest expanded with the rise and fall of her ribs. She shut her eyes, trying to imagine herself back… in another time.

A converted ballroom.

A floor to ceiling mirror running the length of one wall.

A gaggle of girls in stretchy tights, limbering up against the bar by the mirror.

And Lisa.

Ten years old, sitting flat on the floor. Her legs stretched out in front of her, toes pointed. She clenched the muscles in her thighs, her face showing no expression as she lifted.

Up… up… up…

Drawing them slowly level with her…

Lisa felt the handle of the knife, still embedded in her calf, hit the back of her hand. Opening her eyes, she curled her fingers around it. And then, biting down on her lip so hard she ripped a gash right through it, Lisa lowered her leg.

The blade sliced free.

She looked up. Castiel was staring at her. He nodded once.

Lisa went to work on the ropes.

"Not so tough without your magic, are ya? Are ya?"

Patrick was a bloody heap in the corner. Gage was straddling him, his legs pinning the smaller man's arms to his sides. He drove his fists into his unprotected face, each blow seeming to land with increasing force.

"How old are you?" Gage taunted him, "A millennium? More? Oh, this is gonna be sweet!"

"You're right about that…"

Gage spun around.

The last thing he saw was the blood-spattered point of his own knife, before Lisa thrust it through his eyeball, skewering the brain.

The body flopped to the floor, the knife still sticking out like the stick at the end of a candy-apple.

Lisa grabbed Patrick's arm and helped him to his feet. The Irishman's face was a mosaic of welts and bruises.

"Come here," Castiel ordered them.

Still clinging to Patrick, Lisa limped over to the doorway. Once they passed through, Castiel laid his hands on their heads.

To Lisa, it felt like a bucket of ice water had just been poured over her. Her skin tingled. The sensation buzzed for a few seconds, and then it was gone.

She looked down. Her shirt was repaired. She pulled it open, noting that the lacerations on her chest had sealed without a trace, and the wound from the knife had disappeared.

"Okay…" she said, "Take me to Dean."

.

.

.

Dean's face hit the floor and he felt his cheekbone crack.

He was limp as a rag doll. There was so much pain it coalesced inside his veins, like a swarm of ants trying to bite their way out.

He felt the heel of Satan's boot press down onto the side of his face, driving it further into the hard stone floor.

Dean had seen this before.

2014. When the angels sent him to the future.

Then, like now, Lucifer had taken possession of Sam.

And Lucifer had killed him.

Dean's vision blurred. It was like a fog descended over his eyes, and he felt the yawning of the Pit gaping open in front of him.

So easy now…

So easy to just… let go.

Dean blinked.

He was facing the doorway, and saw three figures appear on the stairs.

Castiel, Patrick, and…

"DEAN!" Lisa yelled.

She dashed down the steps. Lucifer twiddled his fingers, and the door slammed shut in her face.

"Petulant child! They can't help you!"

Still bearing the full weight of the giant above him, Dean cracked a smile.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

She was alive.

Dean reached up with his right hand, sliding it under the cuff of Lucifer's pant leg. He dug his nails into the skin just above his Achilles' tendon and wrenched down, scouring a series of large gashes in the flesh.

Lucifer yelled and lifted his foot. Dean twisted, driving an elbow into the side of his knee. Lucifer's leg buckled and he fell.

That second was all Dean needed.

He reached back into his pocket and clutched at the lock of hair. Drawing it up from the dim recesses of memory, he yelled the incantation:

"_Cado diligo exsisto! Cado diligo exorior!"_

Then, in English.

"_Fallen love arise! Fallen love come forth!"_

Lucifer raised his hand, like he was trying to pluck the words from the air, but a sudden wall of flame leapt up between them. He'd fallen right into the second circle.

The flames reared above him, whipping like a furious tornado.

Dean gasped.

Just like his mom… five years ago.

The flames slowly died down until, with a final sputter, they winked out.

And there she was.

Back straight, her honey-blonde hair bouncing over her shoulders. Her piercing blue eyes fixed on the man in white, draped at her feet.

"Sam?"

Lucifer gagged. Then he started to jerk – large spasms like he was having a fit. Blood frothed up into his mouth and sparks flew from his eyes and fingertips.

"No… no…" he croaked.

Then he went completely still.

He kept his eyes on the woman standing over him. A single tear broke free, escaping down his cheek.

"Jess…"

Jess smiled a beautiful smile. She crouched down, caressing his cheek.

"Yes, Sam," she said, "It's me."

"Jess…" he breathed again, "I'm… I'm so sorry…"

"Shh…" she whispered, "Don't be. You're here now, Sam. You have to be strong."

"I… I can't."

"You can!" her tone was fierce, commanding, "You're Sam. My Sammy. Just a little while longer. And then… we'll be together."

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips. Soft. As swift as the passing of a butterfly,

Light blazed, and she vanished.

Dean fought through the pain, using his arms to drag himself across the floor. When he reached Sam, he had to grab at the fabric of his pants to lever himself up. Sam's eyes were swimming in tears – blood tears – as he stared at his brother.

"Dean…"

"Hey Sammy…" said Dean, "I missed ya."

Sam's lips twitched with the promise of a smile. Then it was gone. He spasmed again, like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Dean!" He croaked, "He's coming! He's coming!"

"Fight him, Sammy!"

Sam flung out a hand, scratching desperately across the stone.

He gripped the edge of the blade, and clutched at it, relishing the pain as it bit into his palm. He hoisted it, planting the tip over his heart.

He strained against it, fighting with every ounce of his strength, but the blade would not pierce his skin.

"Dean, I can't! He's fighting me! You have to do it!"

"Sammy, no!"

"Dean, please!"

Sam's irises seemed to be spinning. A flash of steel grey again flickering behind the hazel Dean had known all his life.

"Jess… She's waiting…"

Mewling with agony, Dean grabbed the handle of the sword.

He risked one last look into his brother's eyes.

"I love you," hissed Sam.

"I love you too!"

Dean plunged down. The blade tore into Sam's chest, popping straight through the heart. Sam's eyes flared, and it was like a star exploded inside his skin. The light flared out, throwing Dean back a good ten feet.

He landed flush on his back, and must have passed out for a couple of seconds, because when he opened his eyes, Castiel was crouching over him.

"Keep still," said Castiel.

He put his hands on Dean's brow and closed his eyes. The cuts on Dean's face eased closed. His bones jerked, and knitted into place. The blood dried.

He was healed.

But it didn't matter.

The pain he felt could never be taken away.

Castiel hoisted him to his feet. Patrick and Lisa were standing over Sam. He was sprawled on his back, his eyes open.

He was smiling.

A pair of giant wings were singed into the earth underneath him.

Dean shuffled forward.

Lisa spun round and launched herself into his arms. Sobbing, Dean pressed a series of kisses into her hair. He held her so tight he was scared he was going to break her. Over the top of her head, his eyes fell downwards, and met his brother's blank, still, peaceful face.

"Goodbye, Sammy…"

.

.

.


	28. Trailer

Hey Guys…

No new update, sorry… but I just wanted to let y'all know that I've uploaded the trailer for this story.

It's at: http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=bPNz-lD4cHw

Just remove the spaces.

There was just something about this fic, I guess… I couldn't let it go.

Anyway, please check it out – leave comments – the usual.

Thanks!

You guys rock!


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